Esprit de Corps
by FreedomOftheSeas
Summary: A Soldier of Chaos leads the Black Pearl's crew on an unexpected adventure into the depths of Hades and to the tops of Mount Olympus to battle against corrupt Heathen gods, revealing a dark truth about the power behind Fountain of Youth's eternal waters.
1. Prologue, Port of Nassau

A novel written in response to the legends of the Fountain of Youth and its Keeper, inspired by Greek and Roman mythology, armies of gladiators, and the price paid by those who seek out immortality for their own personal gain.

Will the self proclaimed "Soldier of Chaos" finally find her peace and start anew?

And will Jack Sparrow and Hector Barbossa let their greed for immortality lead them to blood thirsty betrayal?

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but a vivid imagination. **

_Thank you Nytd for your diligent beta reading!  
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**Prologue – Warrior **

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_**Roman Republic, **__**Forum Boarium - **__**26 B.C., **_

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She sat feebly in the crook of her stone cell, waiting and hoping that the doors to her freedom would one day open and accept her even with every one of her sins. She tucked her knees tightly against her flattened chest, running her fingers through the stubble upon her head, her hair sliced to its roots making her appear more masculine, masking her true identity. Her feet lay bare to the harsh elements and eyes tainted with blood.

She had taken more lives that day for the entertainment of thousands of spectators, who laughed at the idea of inflicting death upon their fellow man.

Each day, they were led into the arena with the intent to slaughter one another as spectators observed the very face of death while they prepared to overcome it. In a metaphorical sense as well, she had been socially dead for years either way. Each night, she saw countless faces disappear, knowing that she had murdered them for the sake of her existence, waiting for the day her own life would finally come to an end.

She had killed two hippopotami in her lifetime, one elephant and three beautifully striped tigers.

She had killed fifty-two men and twelve boys by gladius and fascina in twelve years of slavery and confinement. She watched them suffer as their last breaths escaped their collapsing lungs, reaching out to her for aid. They were all slaves, cut from the same cloth, some birthed by the same mother, only to be tossed out in the lions like yesterday's rubbish.

She rested her head on the stone's cold surface, seeking comfort and forgiveness for her broken soul as she closed her eyes, leaving herself at the mercy of sleep.

She found herself confronted by a light - a light which gave itself generously, filling the entirety of her cell in the darkness of night, yet It did not seek anything in return for it's generosity. Not bothering to inquire whether she was friend or foe, rather it gave itself and was not thereby diminished by her being.

"Warrior," a voice called out to her from within the light.

She turned her face from the wall; her eyes shot open, wide in terror.

"My child, you have been chosen," the voice spoke once more.

"C-Chosen?" she stammered, pushing herself up to her feet.

"Cleopatra Selene - my child, you must take my hand."

"Do not call me that!" she growled, spitting at the ground and in turn, the essence of her prior existence. "Do you not see that I am not whom you speak of?"

Her hands were stained with the crusts of aged blood. Her clothes were sullied with the ashes of her opponents, burned each day just before nightfall. If the bodies were not fit to burn, she would dig their graves and bury them herself. Solidifying the notion that at one point in time, she was their friend and in the end, she became their foe and executioner.

Her sword was encrusted with dead skin and sliced pieces of muscle and fleshy membrane. She embodied nothing that pertained to her mother or father nor the existence they wished for her to have.

"Are you not Cleopatra Selene, child of Marc Antony?"

She looking down to the floor, smiling wickedly. "I was. If he were alive to see me today, he would deny me as his own flesh and blood, as he rightfully should."

"Then, will you not take my hand and escape this place that has branded you as an animal?"

"Animal?" she humored. "The brutality of mankind to an animal is frivolous; apparently we cannot tell the difference."

"It is only a difference in victim," the voice affirmed.

"No," she stated, turning away from the light. "The difference is that _I'm_ the victim. Royal blood courses through my veins, yet here I stand - a prisoner in the kingdom that rightfully belongs to me."

"Turn your face from me and the shadows shall follow swiftly behind," warned the voice.

"Then let them come!" she yelled. "I've shed the blood of six men today! If that does not merit the shadow of death itself to bestow itself upon me then I don't know else will!"

"Take my hand, child," the voice spoke after a moment, recognizing her lack of faith.

She stopped, resolute in her stance as she peered over her shoulder. "What is it that you want from me?"

"Your servitude," the voice responded promptly. "If you take my hand, you will be free. I will set you free for all eternity."

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**Chapter 1 – The Port of Nassau**

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The ocean was soft with currents, maybe waves at times. As time passed ever so slowly, he began to long for consistency rather than tumultuous highs and lows. The sea called out to him in his dreams, whispering for the wind to fill his sails and to test his seams. He was calm in the water and yet, part of him longed to linger by the shore, like a ship safe within its harbor. Jack Sparrow had, in fact, been floating along calm Caribbean Seas for several days, twisting and contorting his body to conform to the dinghy's limited space, causing him to tire easily and become sore from the uncomfortable wooden cell. The pains that formed in his joints were numbing, almost as numbing as his present mindset as he watched the _Black Pearl _sailed proudly through his mind at full canvas.

In his wildest of dreams, he followed behind it as quickly as he could, arms outstretched, but she was relentlessly pursuing a course that that he had not mapped; she was truly unobtainable. He thought of how desperately he wished to reach out to her, touching the glistening pegs of her majestic helm once more. He thought of how content he could possibly make her, comforting her with the fact that she finally returned to capable hands of her proper captain.

Diminutive droplets of sweat glistened down his temples onto his exposed, sun-kissed chest. The warm mid-day sun danced across the plains of his face, reflecting off of his white linen shirt. He wiped away his sweat with his sleeve, licking stray droplets from his lips with a skillful tongue.

Three days he had spent within the dinghy's confinement, floating slowly into oblivion within food or water. Barbossa had left him with nothing but a name and a godforsaken vessel to his doom.

Only one hope remained – a small glass bottle containing the remnants of sweet Tortugain rum from his favorite tavern,_ The Faithful Bride _sat enticingly by his side, awaiting his supple lips and slick tongue to take it once more.

He took a hearty swig, unable to ration his thirst any longer, remembering the phrase he had uttered so confidently just days ago.

"Drink up me hearties. Ho yo," he rasped as the spicy, amber liquid hit his tongue, making his throat tingle. He licked his lips, savoring each drop of the sweet nectar as if it were his last.

The numbing effects of rum always helped Jack feel somewhat at ease. He even went so far as to say that it was something of a tender nature, comforting his soul while blinding his scenes. In reality, the effects were superfluous, for lessening the pain of losing his one true love, the _Black Pearl_, was not an ache only rum could mend. His_ Pearl _was not only a ship to the good captain, for he did not view her in the same light as any ordinary sailor. In his eyes, she was the only woman who had done his heart no harm; she was his escape from the changing world on land.

He stood for a moment, regaining his balance to secure the dinghy's foot to the boom, making sure the mainsheet was released so that the sail wouldn't fill as he began to raise the sail. He raised the mainsail, while taking the last sip of rum, finally throwing the bottle out to sea in frustration. He raised his brown, weathered tricorn hat, wiping away thin rivers of sweat from his brow with his sleeves once more.

He placed the hat back upon his head, looking out to where he had thrown the bottle out to the sea, watching it float away for a moment into a distant spit of land.

"Land, ho!" he hollered, stretching his arms out before him to what seemed to be the island of Nassau, desperately hoping that it was not a figment of fatigue or utter delirium.

Pulling out his finely crafted spyglass, he extended it to peer over at the island's majestic and vivacious port, deciding turn the braces of the yard a quarter turn, adjusting the sails to take advantage of the current favorable wind.

He recalled a time when the island of Nassau was once a bustling pirate port catering to all walks of life. This held true until several years prior when the Royal Navy was sent to New Providence Island to drive out the all that was piracy. The Navy gave generous offers to any pirate willing to cooperate, which included a complete pardon to any pirate who would turn themselves in and renounce their crimes. Jack could not think of life as privateer of England becoming equal to a life of freedom upon the sea. Many pirates turned themselves in for the sake of not being hung and those scabrous dogs who declined were bombarded by troops who were sent back to deal with the mess.

One thing that Jack had that gave him the edge over Barbossa was, very simply put – his cunning. Jack had taken the sacred maps that lead the whelp and his bonny lass to locker in order to save him. He had given up his dream of immortality to save the whelp's life but, he swore to not sacrifice the opportunity again. He had a feeling that Barbossa would not waste any time in taking the _Pearl _back into his possession, yet he left his ship in the command of the slightly inebriated Gibbs. Good man, but a damn sleepy drunk.

He drifted nearby the busy port, examining the hustle and bustle of the merchants and naval officers with a meticulous eye. Heavily armed troops were on patrol, marching up and down the main dock in squadrons; pearl-white guns were eagerly perched upon their shoulders, ready for the slightest disturbance in regular activity. A brigade of law abiding merchants went about their business, carrying food and supplies back and forth between the market and their vessels.

Jack had realized long ago that he no longer had allies on this godforsaken rock. Tortuga was the only safe pirate port in these changing times. The sea was slowly losing its freedom, forcing even the most cunning of men to go into hiding, spending longer periods of time out at sea.

It was nightfall when Jack rowed his dinghy around to shore on the other side of the docks, away from scrupulous eyes. He figured that he should keep a low profile because of his past dealings with this particular port.

"There must be some pirates left on this bloody rock," Jack reassured himself as he dodged several guards standing the dog watch.

He swiftly made his way through the crowd of busy merchants, doing as best he could to blend in. He hurried into the first tavern he laid eyes on, opening the door to discover a large room glowing from dimly lit candlelight. For a _respectable_ town, this particular tavern was in no way respectable. He wrinkled his nose as he passed by certain areas that smelled of fresh vomit along with mixtures of foul body odor, shifting his eyes to various tables surrounding a wooden platform, where a small band played loud and chaotic music composed of fiddles, drums and belligerent singing.

The noise slithered deep within his ears, clouding the jolts of haphazard gunshots and seductive whispers of prostitutes as he made his way through the crowded tavern. He weaved his way through barmaids and drunken sailors. He watched as several women of a promiscuous nature attempted to entertain the tavern's many inhabitants.

He was in no mood for pleasurable company this evening; his mind was elsewhere, hoping to find a place to rest his weary bones for the evening.

The tavern was filled with all sorts of sailors and merchants from around the Caribbean, and actually reminded him of his favorite tavern on his beloved Tortuga. He let out a small sigh as he headed toward his destination.

He was approached by a young barmaid, adorned long blond locks and a sheer lace corset. "Open a tab, sir?"

"Aye, lass," he stated, adjusting his coat. "Although, I cannot promise that proper payment will be received. But, I'm sure with an establishment such as this, proper repayment can be agreed upon in other forms," he cooed.

She giggled. "What can I do ya for?"

"You can do me for a lot of things," he said, clearing his throat. "Unfortunately, for this evening, I'm afraid I'll have to settle for your finest rum. Actually, make that a double, in a very large cup, if you will," he specified, leaning his arms against the counter.

"I suggest that you'll not be enhancing it with any water or I'll have to take you up on that previous offer," he declared casually, revealing a dashing smiling.

The young wench nodded, sauntering over to the several large barrels of rum behind the bar to fill his order. She wondered how this odd, yet handsome man knew the tricks their tavern played with its customers.

She paid him no mind, seeing that she had other orders to fill and tabs to be collected.

She handed Jack his drink. "Thank you, darling," Jack mustered, before he drowned himself in the finest rum he had ever tasted.

"You're not from 'round here are you?" she inquired, turning to him once more as she began to clean the sullied counter top with a rag from her pocket. She curiously watched him as he emptied the contents of his mug.

He smiled. "I'm just drifting by, so to speak," he answered truthfully, loosing himself once more in the lack of sensation.


	2. Tavern Camaraderie

**Chapter 2 – Tavern Camaraderie**

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Most men who had entered the tavern that evening proceeded straight to the taproom where they ate, drank, smoked tobacco, socialized, fornicated and caught up on the news of the day. Grog was fairly cheap; just two shillings for a mixture of rum and water, yet the liquid never enticed or satisfied Jack's thirst. He understood its purpose – watering down a sailor's daily liquor ration in hopes of ending drunken brawls seemed reasonable enough, just as long as they stayed away from his.

The food was prepared in the kitchen located directly behind the tavern and brought outside to the taproom in hourly shifts. Countless platters displayed a wonderful assortment of pork, beef, chicken and seafood all available for consumption if you so happen to lie hands on it first.

Jack was still in no mood to eat and continued to feel a slight vulnerability, watching the world as it moved about more rapidly, resulting from his sixth mug of unaltered rum. As the evening wore on, he began to tire due to a lethal combination of exhaustion paired with his long and turbulent passage from the port of Tortuga, though his drunkenness proved to be a clever disguise.

He backed away from the counter, swaying for a moment, attempting to regain his composure as he began to forget his misery, imagining himself for a few moments, free and in high spirits.

"She was looking at me first, you pompous git!"

He stopped, startled by the familiar scuffle that had originated from the table behind him. Apparently, madness was being harvested by the bottle in Nassau.

"You must be joking. A girl like that, looking at you?" exclaimed Murtogg in a fit of laughter, patting Mullroy's back.

"What's so hard to believe about that?" Mullroy inquired seriously, narrowing his brow.

"Nothing, just hard to believe that she could even wrap her arms around you with all that extra baggage you've got on your waistline," Murtogg explained, rubbing his counterpart's belly.

They grew silent, darting their eyes toward the woman in question as she returned into their field of vision. She was heading toward their table, carrying a tray of various bottles of rum, whiskey, brandy and pints of ale.

Her skirts were limp for the purpose of squeezing through excessive amounts of tables and sailors each night. They were composed of two lengths of fabric pinch pleated at the waist with wide soft sleeves sewn in. The mantua had gradually stiffened, decorated and expanded with beautifully crafted panniers. Her dark brown hair was composed of long, curly tresses, pinned up in a messy heap at the very top of her head.

Mullroy attempted to straighten his greasy hair beneath his hat, licking the tips of his fingers to adjust his thick eyebrows as Murtogg adjusted his shirt, breathing into his hand to smell the tartness of his breath.

She approached their table, bending over to place several pints of ale before the awe-struck sailors.

"Can I get you anything else?" she asked, resting her hands on her hips.

"Miss, I --" Murtogg began, listening to his voice trail as he noticed the presence of a shadow being cast upon the table, causing him to pause and look up at the man before him.

"Well, isn't it fancy meeting you two scoundrels here in this fine establishment," the man interrupted.

They both paused, staring at the man who skillfully slithered an arm around the voluptuous barmaid as he sat himself down at the table.

"Jack bloody Sparrow," they uttered in dismay.

Jack bit the woman's cheek playfully as he reached towards her tray, grabbing a large bottle of brandy. She giggled at the confident rogue before scurrying behind the bar. He finally turned to face the two astonished and slightly disappointed men who sat at the table before him.

"Captain! _Captain _Jack bloody Sparrow, in the flesh, gents. It's best not to leave out formalities, especially in front of the lasses, aye?"

They nodded, bringing the large mugs of ale to their lips.

"So, what brings you mangy bilge rats to Nassau? Last I saw, you were both merrily sailing away into the sunset on my _Pearl_," Jack indicated with eyes glistening with anger.

"That may have been true for a bit, but Captain Barbossa didn't see us fit to crew the _Pearl_," Murtogg spat, trying to appease the infuriated captain, averting his eyes to see if he could spot the lovely wench behind Jack's head.

"So, he kicked us off the _Pearl_ at the nearest port," Mullroy continued. "Literally, Barbossa didn't even wait 'til we were near the docks, that old, slimy cur!"

"Said we were a liability, as it were!"

"And chucked us out!"

Jack internalized his laughter, extended the bottle of brandy to the two men, seeing that these men had been through quite a bit of ridiculing from Barbossa.

Murtogg leaned in, speaking in a low whisper. "Last we heard Barbossa was after you, Jack."

"Is that so? I can't imagine why," he lied, turning back to the bar.

"Aye, he's been tracking you down for days. I'm astounded that he hasn't found you yet!"

Jack waved his arm to the barmaid, holding up a small black pouch in his hand that contained more than his fair share of shillings. She nodded, acknowledging his silent request.

Satisfied, he turned to look back at the eager men sitting before him, grimacing. "I was never one for ale."

"He knows you've got the map, Jack. What are you going to do about Barbossa?" Mullroy inquired in a low whisper, holding the mug in front of his mouth.

Jack smiled and his hand searched the inside of his long navy coat, pulling a dark, rolled up map from his coat pocket. "I will wait for his navigational skills to mirror that if his astonishing reputation. I'm not willing to relinquish _my _map into his possession just yet, seeing that he still has something of mine."

"Well, what do you plan on doing? Are you going to trade him for it?" inquired Mullroy, searching for a definitive answer.

"Aye, a trade sounds mighty responsible," Murtogg agreed.

Jack paused for a moment, licking his teeth gingerly. "Gents, do you know anything of the Fountain of Youth?" he asked, eyes growing wide with greed as he unrolled the map before them upon the table, indicating the chalice with a tar-stained finger.

"Well, yeah, I've heard the stories," Mullroy stated, raising his brow.

"So have I! My Da used to tell me tales of it when I was naught but a lad," Murtogg confessed.

The two men leaned into the table, hooking their arms around Jack's shoulders, making sure to speak no louder than a whisper.

"Rumor has it, the heathen gods guard the fountain and strikes down all those who try to drink from its holy waters," Murtogg explained gravely.

"Aye, they say that if one wished to gain immortality, the gods would have to find their cause worthy enough to merit such a drink," Mullroy continued.

"An interesting interpretation, gentlemen," Jack began, placing a finger on his lips. "On second thought, that notion might be more troubling than promising. Are you telling me that this map does not lead me directly to where I want to be going?"

"Don't know for sure," Murtogg stated, shrugging skeptically. "It's only a rumor – an old wive's tale, if you ask me."

The barmaid had found her way back through the crowd with a tray of full bottles. "Here ye go, dears!" she exclaimed from behind, bending over Jack's shoulder to let the men take a peak at her voluptuous cleavage, as she set their drinks down onto the table. Before she could continue on with her conversation, she found herself being pulled away by another drunken sailor, disappearing into another large crowd of rambunctious misfits.

Jack was the first to speak after the interruption. "I am on my way to find the Fountain of Youth and to gain what is rightfully mine. Yet, I find myself quite incapable of doing so because I seem to be lacking a crew."

Both Murtogg and Mullroy simultaneously looked over their shoulders at one another, taking another long swig from their mugs.

"So, what are exactly are you proposing here?" inquired Mullroy, curling his lip.

"I'll be proposing what, at ordinary times, no sane individual would offer to the likes of you. Be that as it may, what I'm insinuating is that I would like you two fine gentlemen to join my crew and share in the eternal spoils," he persuaded.

"How do you expect us to 'join in the spoils,' when we've got no ship for you to captain?" Murtogg inquired skeptically.

"I think tonight will be a fine night for your first lesson in commandeering," he confirmed, rolling the map in between his fingers before placing it back within his coat pocket.

"You mean we're going to steal a ship?" Mullroy inquired naively.

"No, we're going to bloody build one! What do you think?" Jack spat, rolling his eyes as he took another long swig of rum, longing to forget that the only two members of his crew didn't even know how to swim.


	3. Fair Winds

**Chapter 3 – Fair Winds**

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In the dead of night, Jack Sparrow treaded softly along the heavily guarded docks of Nassau. Murtogg and Mullroy quickly followed in suit, assisting Jack with his assessment of each ship, evaluating their opportunities and possible shortcomings.

He passed several sloop style vessels, small ship but could hold about one hundred tons and carried about seventy-five pirates, yet it was too small and not quite what he was looking for. He continued on, spotting a two-masted brigantine, square rigged on both masts that could haul about ten cannons and possibly one hundred in crew.

He shook his head, placing his hands on his hips. '_There has got to be a better one_,' he thought, moving on to the next ship, a Dutch Flute. Overall, the ship had been a cheap build, with large cargo hold, but easy prey for pirates. He sighed, continuing on, dodging a group of officers behind a pair of barrels and several boxes of supplies.

Between a pair of two large schooner bowsprits, he spotted a prospect.

"Oi! Over here," Jack whispered, crouching down lower behind the barrels, setting his sights on the ship's majestic, white hull. "_Freedom of the Seas _- has a lovely ring to it, don't you think?"

Jack stood for a moment, raising an eloquent hand to his chin. "It's rather big, not as big as the_ Pearl_ but it will have to do. Might be a bit slower than what I commonly favor, square-riggers might have more room for a skillful pirate crew and it seems to hold better gun platforms for expert take over of merchant ships ... the makings of a vessel that can handle a good ol' bit of pirating, aye?"

Both men shrugged their shoulders. "Looks promising to us, Captain."

Keeping all of _Freedom's_ good qualities in mind, Jack began to notice the ships aesthetics. This brig was a two-masted ship which consisted of the fore-and-aft main sail and also a square main topsail, carrying yard sails on both masts. The fore-and-aft main sail certainly had an advantage over a square sail of being able to be better maneuver and to allow better sailing of the ship. The brig could possibly be fast while sailing, but seemed to require a large crew for the yard sails. She was clearly a merchant ship, distinguished more by rigging and design than by size.

Although, it did not take much to convert a brigantine and use it as a merchant ship to most privateers or vice versa. Privateers generally avoided navy battles, since the better prize was merchant ship loaded with goods that could be sold. To attack merchant ships, a privateer merely needed small cannon, such as swivel guns which was already mounted in an iron fork that was shaped somewhat like an oarlock.

"Well that's a relief, at least we're not sitting ducks," he muttered, viewing his prospect in a different light.

Her fore and main-masts were completely white along the lower fore-and-aft sail, the gaff and boom. She was the complete antithesis of his darling _Pearl_.

"Well, that's certainly ironic."

Watching the crew hoist livestock onto the ship's deck with large and intricate cargo nets, Jack began pondering a way to successfully board the ship virtually unnoticed.

"What are we doing?" Mullroy whispered. "There are guards everywhere!"

"I'm telling you, we're going to get caught as soon as we step foot upon that gangway."

"Gangway, you say?" Jack reiterated, thinking for a moment.

He smiled. "Mr. Murtogg, Mr. Mullroy! To the dinghy, step lively now! I haven't got all day," he exclaimed, flicking his wrists at the pair to hurry them along.

Jack led the two men to his dinghy, instructing them to row out to the rear of the _Freedom of the Seas_.

"There's more than one way to board a ship, gentlemen. Best to be imaginative in times such as these."

---

In the cargo hold, Jack ordered Murtogg and Mullroy to release all the livestock that the crew had skillfully tied in only a moments prior to their boarding. According to Jack's plan, once the livestock was freed from captivity, they would all be released, allowing them to scamper about on deck, colliding with the unsuspecting crew.

"While there running after all these damn chickens they won't realize we're stealing the ship!" exclaimed Mullroy, looking rather proud of the captain's plan.

"Do you really think that this is going to work?" Murtogg inquired skeptically, holding a frantic chicken in his arms.

"My plans _always _work. Don't impugn my honor, lads. Go on! Get to work!"

---

On deck, the crew of the _Freedom Of the Seas _was hard at work, packing the remainder of the supplies, storing fresh food into the galley, finalizing all the necessary preparations for the ship to make way into the horizon. Once the men had finished their tasks, they walked down the gangway onto the docks to join their captain for a celebratory mug of rum for their grand profits on the island that day.

Because of deafening laughter, frantic story telling, and of course, the inebriating effects of the rum – the crew had not noticed their livestock walking down the gangway and onto the docks to greet them. One of the chickens attempted to take flight, landing on top of the captain's head, clucking frantically in his ear. The men turned to find a stampede coming toward them.

"Men! I want movement!" the captain yelled, chasing after one of the lambs, losing his hat to a gust of wind. The members of his crew dashed after chickens, colliding with one another haphazardly, leaving the docks in utter chaos.

Several naval officers left their post nearby and were now helping the crew catch the remainder of the loose livestock in the efforts to restore order. With lambs and chickens in hand, the soldiers headed back to the captain to find him still, wide eyed, and staring at the spot where his vessel had once been.

"Pirates," he muttered in a barely audible whisper.

---

Jack had taken to the helm at once, feeling the power of a vessel beneath his feet, the horizon captivating him once more. He felt as though he had come out of a lengthy exile, feeling the wind greet him as a long lost lover just as the sea accepted him back into her gentle arms.

"Hoist the upper topsail yard and the topgallant yard! Fasten the sheets and the leech lines! Secure the rigging and prepare yourselves for a long and dangerous journey, gents!" he commanded, smirking as he took the pegs of the wheel tightly between his fingers.

The men scurried along about their duties, leaving Jack at the helm, alone with his thoughts. He had noticed that it was daybreak now, the bright sun peeking over the dark horizon. It was his favorite time of day.

Jack watched as beautiful hues of oranges, yellows and reds began to glisten in the sky. The sun peaked through feathery, white clouds, eager to bring its luminosity into the darkness of night.

Jack realized how much he loved the sea and all of her eternal beauty. '_How could anyone get tired of waking up to this?_' he thought, feeling gentle waves crash against the hull of his new vessel as the mild breeze ran through his dark, long locks.

He had commandeered himself one step closer to immortality, feeling his insides tingle from the thought.

'_The immortal Captain Jack Sparrow has a lovely ring to it I must say,_' he smiled, feeling his eyelids grow heavy from lack of sleep. The aches of fatigue were finally beginning to affect his body physically.

The adrenaline that had previously flowed through his veins at the docks was beginning to slowly subside. He began to notice how sore the muscles in his body really were, pinpointing the sharp pains that ran up and down his spine as he turned the wheel to its proper heading.

Raising a hand to his shoulder; he attempted to knead away the pain as he let his mind wander off into the distance.

Jack eagerly searched his coat pocket for the circular map, unrolling it to its full extent, carefully inspecting its contents, moving the separate dials to their proper place. Everything seemed to be in order. The map led him directly to _La Florida_. All the tales Jack had heard about the fountain of youth seemed to have originated in vicinity of that area.

A black 'X' marked a spot on the lower tip. '_Could this be where this keeper resides?' _Jack thought, _'Will they take me the rest of the way? And furthermore, how will I convince the gods not to smite my bloody soul?_'

"Captain?"

Jack's mind shot back to reality. Startled, he tuned to face the intruder of his thoughts. "Aye, Mr. Murtogg? If you need orders I can tell you what you need to be doing and that's not scaring your captain out of his bloody breeches!" he yelled.

"Begging your pardon, Captain, it's just that Mullroy and I have just been noticing that you seem a bit weary, sir. And well, we were just thinking of taking the helm while you were took a rest yourself. What you say to that?"

"Do you have experience at the helm, Mr. Mullroy?" Jack inquired, watching the man nod feverishly, fidgeting the tricorne hat in his hands.

"Fifteen years under the command of the Royal Navy, sir. I most certainly know my way around a helm."

'_Yet, you don't know how to swim?_' he thought, sighing.

"Aye, then," he stated, unlatched his compass from his belt, opening it with a flick of his fingers.

"Follow in this general direction," he stated, looking down at his compass as he pointed toward the northwest.

Both men nodded as Jack strutted passed them with his map toward his newly acquired cabin.

'_I hope them two aren't the death of me…' _he thought, turning back to find the two squabbling over who was fit to steer the helm first.

Jack pushed open the lavishly decorated French doors of the cabin and entered a very tidy chart room.

A large wooden table was set in the center with various logs and charts of the Caribbean sprawled along the length of it. And elaborate candelabra overhead with lit candles gave light to the pieces of parchment just below it. A large globe with gold trimming was placed near the front, spinning subtly from the movement of the sea.

Jack made his way passed several book shelves containing a plethora of books, varying in subject, running his tar stained fingers through their spines. He had noticed various trinkets that stood between each book – most likely items that the crew had picked up on their journeys from port to port. Jack quickly turned his attention to a large, red velvet curtain towards the back of the room.

He brushed past the heavy cloth into a smaller back room that contained a large, comfortable-looking four poster bed adorned with crisp white linens. Sunlight poured into the room and onto his body through a brigade of large windows that surrounded the room.

'_Damn merchants sure know how to treat themselves,'_ he thought, grinning at the sight before him. He quickly pulled off his vest, boots and shirt, throwing various trinkets to the side, plopping down onto the bed to fall into a deep and peaceful slumber.


	4. The Slimy Old Cur

**Chapter 4 – The Slimy Old Cur**

**---**

Dawn had caught up quite swiftly with the _Black Pearl_. The _Grimness_ certainly enjoyed her competitive advantage in the dead of night; her black exterior blended flawlessly with the sea and never ceased to surprise its unsuspecting prey with a ravenous roar of cannon fire.

As the bright rays of morning began to ravage her glistening blackened decks, a strong, morning gust of wind proceeded to life to the _Pearl's_ limp sails.

Captain Hector Barbossa was the first to awaken that morning, having too much on his mind to be concerned about the proper amount of sleep.

Placing his large black hat upon his head, he pushed open the cabin's large French doors, proceeding out onto the _Pearl's_ sun-drenched deck, letting his thoughts wander towards the early morning horizon. He thought of how much he truly regretted neglecting to place a more watchful eye on Jack, who had taken the sacred map from beneath his nose. At the same time, he had taken Jack's precious Pearl from under his - unknowingly trading one precious possession for another.

'_I've been a __pirate__, a poet, a pawn and a lord. I've had me ups an' downs an' each time I find meself on the upside, that damn Sparrow tricks me into fallin' flat on me face,__'_ Barbossa thought, although he had picked himself up from the ground, he still could not help but feel the anger of being outsmarted, yet again.

Running his fingers through his beard, he came to realization that he had spent the past four days painstakingly searching for Jack, sailing from port to port in the attempt to catch up to the young rogue, knowing that he was falling behind.

Barbossa turned to the direction of his cabin, returning to his black chart table, unrolling the remnants of the old map that he obtained in Singapore, still in disbelief. He rubbed the deep wrinkles on his forehead, taking a swig of rum from a half empty bottle on the table, slamming it back down in aggravation. The large hole cut out in the center infuriated him more and more each time he laid his eyes upon it.

He grabbed an apple from a large bowl of fruit on the table, taking a longing breath of fresh sea air. Jack the Monkey joined him on his shoulder, giving Barbossa a comforting smile as he returned Jack's sentiments by softly caressing his tail.

High up atop the crow's nest, Marty cupped his hands to his mouth and called. "Sail ho!"

Barbossa moved toward the rail, extending his spyglass into the distance, catching a glimpse of a white ship on the horizon; the sun radiated off its glossy exterior. He smiled, closing the spyglass and placing it back into his pocket. He had a feeling he would be catching up with Jack Sparrow faster than he had anticipated.

"All hands! Prepare to come about ye scabrous dogs!"

* * *

Jack had no idea that Hector Barbossa was a few miles away, preparing to board his newly acquired ship. Murtogg and Mullroy failed to spot the _Pearl_ their bow, seeing that they had preoccupied themselves with conversations of preposterous pirate superstitions.

As the _Black Pearl_ drew near, Murtogg and Mullroy's heated discussion was suddenly interrupted by a loud rumble. The two men looked at one another, and quickly found that the rumble was caused by two dozen cannons firing as one.

Jack had awoken to a loud and violent shake in his cabin. A cannon ball had been fired through his window, sprinkling fine shards of glass violently about the room.

"Bloody hell!" Jack yelped, jumping out of bed to avoid the heap of sharp glass shooting toward him. He slowly peeked over the edge of the mattress, spotting a black main sail and rudder floating gracefully passed his window. He recognized the sound of those cannons; it could only be one thing – _The Pearl_.

"Not good!" he confirmed, running out of from behind the velvet curtain, colliding head-first into Murtogg and Mullroy on the way out.

"Captain!" Murtogg exclaimed breathlessly "The _Black Pearl_! She's on us!"

"I can see that!" Jack's eyes widened. He knew he could not match the _Pearl's_ cannons or hand to hand combat, especially not with this crew. His hand grazed over the rolled up map in his pocket. Jack smiled, which frightened and relieved Murtogg and Mullroy at the same time.

"Gents, there's no need to fret, we've got something that Hector _needs_ … And as I've said, I'm not ready to part ways with it just yet."

Jack pushed the two men aside, swaggering confidently toward the door. Murtogg and Mullroy followed their self-assured captain hesitantly out on deck where Hector Barbossa and his crew stood, awaiting Jack to grace them with his presence.

"Jack Sparrow, is this the best ye can do? Commandeering boats that belong to little girls? I'm surprised yer sails aren't pink!" Barbossa laughed followed by a roar of laugher behind him, originating from Jack's former crew.

"Hector! Well, isn't it fancy seeing you here, mate. I didn't think you'd be able to find me, what with old age starting to take its course and all," Jack stated, propelling his arms forward, smiling happily at Barbossa.

Jack demeanor caused a feeling of uncertainty to arise within Barbossa's mind; uneasiness brewed within the pit of his stomach.

"It was only four days ago that you sailed away with my ship," Jack said, turning his attention over to the _Black Pearl. _"And now you're here to claim another one, I suppose?"

"Jack, I don't know what yer talkin' about. That be _my_ ship that yer lookin' at," Barbossa replied coolly taking a few steps toward Jack.

Jack studied his former crew, feeling an overwhelming uncertainty within each of the men. It was as if they were united with both him and Barbossa, but could not choose a captain between the two.

"Jack ye have something that belongs to me, and I'd like to have it back. Now, if you'd be so kind as to hand it over and there won't be any need of inflictin' pain on ye and yer crew," Barbossa stated, smiling as he extended his hand to Jack, waiting to feel the map's smooth presence upon his skin.

Jack returned a smile to his former first mate. "Captain Barbossa, I have no idea what you could possibly be speaking of. Last time I checked, this would be _my_ map, but if you're willing to follow me terms it can be _our_ map. I've got some interesting information that would benefit me, er… us." Jack leaned into Barbossa and spoke almost as soft as a whisper.

'_He has something up his sleeve_,' he thought skeptically. '_What that something might be, is of no importance at this moment._' He had been sailing for days, feeling life slip away from his fingertips. What he wanted now more than ever was his right to immortality and Jack had his ticket.

"Allow me the humor of listenin' to yer terms," Barbossa agreed skeptically.

"Of course, Hector. Shall we speak privately in my cabin?" he offered.

Barbossa nodded, growling as he walked past Jack towards his cabin. Jack followed, shutting the doors to the cabin behind them.

Barbossa sat at the table in the center of the room and propped up his feet on another chair. "Jack, what kinda game are ye playin'? What's this_ information_ I need to be knowin' about?"

Jack traced the bulge of the map under his coat, thinking about the rumor Murtogg and Mullroy had told him about the god who guards the fountain. Jack reached inside his coat pocket and slowly pulled out the map, setting it in the middle of himself and Barbossa.

"It seems to me that his elusive little map here does not lead us directly to what we want," Jack began.

"What are ye sayin', Jack?"

"Have you ever heard of the tales of a guardian of sorts that has been put in the command of the Fountain of Youth?" Jack uncorked two bottles of rum and handed one to Barbossa.

"Aye Jack, I've heard the tale but I never understood it to be true. The heathen gods sent forth one person – a poor, young soul, to drink from the fountain for their own personal gain. Ye be thinkin' this map will be leadin' us to this _person_ rather than the fountain itself?"

"That is exactly what I be thinking, Hector. And if that notion happened to be true, then we'll be needing to find a way to drink from it with their godly approval. Unless, of course, we intend on stealing a drink rather than earning it," he proposed, feeling a devilish smirk dance across his lips.

Jack slowly turned the dials of the map, showing Barbossa the depiction of the large black goblet.

"My terms, Barbossa, are very simple. You and I tag team together in the quest of finding this guardian. You will be taking the _Grimness_ as your flagship, of course, while I take the lead with the map on this ship. I will be needing a proper crew members of course, and by the looks of it, you seem to have more than enough on the _Pearl_."

"Once we reach La Florida, we befriend the person that the map leads us to and convince old-what-his-face to lead us to fountain," Jack continued, sounding very pleased with his plan.

"Jack, ye think it be that easy – playing with the gods is no laughin' matter," Barbossa spoke gravely.

"Who's laughing here, mate? I'm as serious as they come. Have you forgotten who I am?" Jack took another swig of rum and set it down on the table, waiting for Barbossa's answer.

"Aye, I know who ye be."

"So, do we have an accord, _Captain_ Barbossa?'

Barbossa rolled his eyes, standing up to lean over the map with both hands on the table. He grabbed the bottle of rum that was resting next to his hand and took a good, long swig.

Barbossa had heard tales of the guardian, but he was not sure that Jack fully understood the complications that could arise if they decided to continue on with such a journey.

"Aye, Jack. We have an accord."

The two men exited Jack's cabin to find Pintel and Ragetti with their ears attached to the door. Their crew was eavesdropping in on their private conversation.

Barbossa glared at Jack and the incompetent duo. "Ye can have them two, the mute and the little one. I keep the rest. Oh, and we picked up a stowaway on Tortuga ye might be needin' since the 'First Mate' position already be filled on _my_ ship."

Jack watched as his good friend, Joshamee Gibbs, appear from amidst the crowd of men.

"Cap'n!" Gibbs said excitedly, hobbling over to Jack with a grand smile on his face.

"Mister Gibbs, it seems as though I'm in need of your assistance on my vessel," Jack confessed, smiling at his First Mate. "Will you be willing to brave another journey under my command?"

"Aye Cap'n! Can't imagine it any other way! Do we have a heading, sir?" Gibbs inquired, excitedly.

Jack looked down at his compass and scanned the map for a few moments. The needle of the compass locked into place, steadily pointing towards the north-east.

"Gentlemen, we have our heading!" he stated confidently, looking about as the group of men crowded around him.

"Well? What are you lot waiting for? Mr. Marty! Brace the foreyard and take your post up on the crow's nest!" he ordered.

"Pintel! Ragetti! Trim those sheets and fasten the clews on yards of the lower topsail!"

"Murtogg and Mullroy! Secure the gaskets!"

"Master Gibbs! See to it that Captain Barbossa and the remainder of his crew return to the _Pearl _somewhat unharmed."

"Mr. Cotton, for the love of God, please make me something to eat - I'm starving."

Jack took his spot at the helm, once again looking down at his compass for reassurance. He looked out into the darkening horizon and smiled to himself. His plan was working.


	5. Drag the Sea

**Chapter 5 – Drag the Sea**

**---**

Dusk had fallen before the two captains decided to make way, continuing their journey even with risk of jeopardizing their own lives along with the lives of their crew. The darkness of night engulfed the _Black Pearl_ in an instant. The only indication of her existence was the sound of her majestic sails filling with the evening breeze.

Both captains noticed black thunder clouds accumulating in the distance, smoldering high above the dark blue abyss. Lightning illuminated the skies, making the _Pearl_ visible for only a few seconds at a time, reflecting the flashes of lightning in the distance.

There were treacherous waters ahead, alerting both captains that their journey would not be one of ease. The heathen gods were now upon them, watching their every move.

Abroad the _Black Pearl_, Barbossa and his crew slowly crept behind Jack and the _Freedom of the Seas_. Barbossa prepared himself mentally for a coarse evening, although both he and Jack had sailed more treacherous waters.

They both mirrored one another, stand confidently at the helm, unwavering in their stance, narrowing their eyes at the weathering beast before them.

Barbossa's thoughts drifted toward the distant future, pondering their illustrious arrival in the La Florida colony.

'_How will he convince her?_' Barbossa thought, still unsure if Jack's plan would truly work. Barbossa knew in his mind that she was no fool and that she would not fall for one of Jack's half-brained tactics.

Barbossa tightly gripped the wooden pegs of the helm, bracing himself as the _Pearl _and the _Freedom of the Seas_ entered the storm.

"Avast, ye slimy seadogs! Prepare to meet your makers!" he exclaimed, laughing as he held his hat securely upon his head.

The treacherous skies began to loom above them like a bad omen; the sound of heavy rain began to dance across the decks. Doom awaited their descent into the storm and Barbossa prayed to the Gods, not for safety from danger, but deliverance from fear.

* * *

Jack's body was dripping wet; his dark hair sticking to his face as he struggled to keep his eyes open in the howling winds. The kohl from his eyes had washed away, leaving his clean, tanned face bare to harsh elements. His eyes could not rest for even the slightest moment, attempting to stay focused on the dark abyss that lay before him and his ship.

This storm was unlike any other storm he had ever experience in his many years of sailing. Rather, it challenged his wits and cunning, for it was a challenge brought forth from those reign superior in the sky above him. And at that very moment, Jack vowed to himself that he would make it out of chaos in spite of them.

"You want me to prove myself to you, don't you, Poseidon?" Jack shouted aloud to the sea, barely being able to see a way out of the storm. All pirates knew, that the sea was dangerous and the storms conjured by it were terrible, but they have never found these dangers sufficient reason for remaining ashore. He was able to dodge his way through several tornadoes that had formed on the surface of the sea, but he could not avoid all of the waves that crashed violently against the sides of his ship.

"Mr. Gibbs!" Jack shouted. "Attach safety lines from the main mast to the crew with haste!"

"Aye, Cap'n! Many repairs need to be made to the sheets, sir! The wind is blowin' them apart!"

"Mr. Gibbs, make sure the crew is safe then begin repairs immediately. We cannot afford to lose anyone." With that Gibbs made his way down to the hold to grab a large coil of rope.

Jack realized that he was deep within the storm and must muster all of his strength to fight against the wind and steer his ship around the deadly waves. He had lost sight of Barbossa and his _Pearl_ awhile back; he hoped for the _Grimness'_ sake, that Barbossa knew how to handle her in such a situation. He quickly turned the wheel of the helm to avoid another large wave from crashing onto the starboard side, watching lightning bolts crashing down in the form of a trident in the distance. There was no doubt that Poseidon was upon them, unleashing his never ending fury on their souls.

Gibbs was carefully navigating himself around deck, assisting the crew while attaching safety lines around the waist of each member. Gibbs knew that they would need every single one of their crewman to navigate through these deadly waters.

Jack looked down at his compass and made a swift change in direction, making a few members of the crew topple over from the jolt. Gibbs was able to keep his balance and quickly tied a safety line around his waist.

* * *

Aboard the _Black Pearl_, the scene was no different. Barbossa struggled against the high winds to keep his balance at the helm. His crew was safely attached to the mast by rope and worked together like a well-oiled machine. Barbossa had lost sight of Jack through the thick gray fog that surrounded their vessel. Losing Jack amidst the storm was not good for him or his crew, but at that very moment, he was more worried about making it through in one piece.

The wind cruelly hissed at Barbossa as he navigated the _Pearl_ through the choppy Caribbean Sea. Several miles away, he could plainly see an enormous whirlpool beginning to form and the _Pearl_ was heading straight for it. He turned the wheel of the helm hard to port and with a jolt the _Pearl_ emerged from the fog alongside the _Freedom of the Seas_.

"Jack Sparrow! Ye think ye can get the best of me?" laughed Barbossa from afar.

"Oi, Hector! You finally caught up, eh? I thought you knew how to handle my _Pearl_!" Jack yelled in return, steering the _Freedom_ around gracefully around each wave.

Both Jack Sparrow and Hector Barbossa could see a single ray of sunlight in the distance - a lonely beam of hope. If they could brave these next few moments of torment, they could be free of this nightmare. It seemed as though the world around them was closing in.

Both ships were now traveling side by side. Winds were picking up in all directions, causing both ships to nearly collide with one another as the rain continued to abuse the crew's tired faces.

A flash of blinding white light filled the sky and a loud thrash filled the air. Jack looked up to find the yard of his top main sail shattered. The large pieces of wood from the yard were being carried by the wind to various parts of the ship, crashing into the main deck, almost impaling the crew.

It was obvious to Jack that Poseidon was testing him once more. The heathen god was now tossing every possible obstacle in their way to throw them off course. Jack looked over at the _Black Pearl_, watching as Barbossa steered around the madness with a broad smile on his face.

Barbossa tore his eyes anyway from the struggle before him, giving Jack a look of determination. Time had come to an unexpected halt, as if for that very moment, the chaos around them grew silent. The two men united, fighting with one another on the same side of the battlefield, for the same cause. The two most revered pirates in the Caribbean had finally become one.

Jack turned his attention back to the scene before him. Pintel and Ragetti were already up at the main upper topgallant, trying to repair extensive damage caused by harsh gusts of wind. Gibbs stood his ground on the main deck, feeding rope to the men that were high above him, almost disappearing within the thick clouds. The heavens let out a harsh roar, sending the men another strong gust of wind, almost blowing Ragetti off of the shrouds that he had fastened himself onto. Luckily, Pintel was able to grab hold of Ragetti's arm before he lost balance.

The wind wildly mocked the men in all directions, yet they still pressed on with the repairs to the sheet, never faltering. Murtogg and Mullroy were on the main deck securing the rigging with great precision. Mr. Cotton, minus his parrot, diligently mended a tear in the fore stay sail. Jack had never seen such a brave group of men.

Both ships were now racing to the small beam of light in the distance. Barbossa's stance was steadfast and true while Jack was already imagining the soft, warm rays of sunlight caressing his skin.

The two captains were set on moving forward with all their might, but had not paid attention to what was following them from behind with a ravenous hunger. Behind the _Pearl_ and the _Freedom_, a giant wave was beginning to form, creeping behind like a silent killer of hopes and dreams, ready to crush all that lay in its path.

Mr. Gibbs ran up to the quarter deck to report the conditions of the yard of the main topmast but stopped in his tracks. Gibbs was noticeably shaking, his left hand gripping the rail, signing the cross on his chest.

"Gibbs? What is it man?" Jack inquired.

"Cap'n..." Gibbs mustered with eyes wide in fear.

Jack turned to look at the _Black Pearl_ and the man at her helm.

Barbossa turned his attention to Jack on the _Freedom_.

They knew something was chasing after them.

"Chaplain! Trim those sails! We'll be requirin' some more speed!" Barbossa yelled.

Aboard the _Freedom_, Pintel and Ragetti were already trimming the sails with the help of Gibbs. Both ships were noticeably gaining speed and raged on together in the furious current.

Although the wave seemed to loom behind both ships, at the same time it seemed so distant. As it grew larger, the _Pearl_ and the _Freedom_ were drawn back with the current, into its deadly clutches.

They were almost there. The light was like a doorway - a doorway out of this nightmare. Jack could feel it, Barbossa could feel it too. The light consumed their eyes and illuminated their skin. The tip of the _Freedom's_ bowsprit finally touched the warmness of its radiance.

Jack's arm reached out into the blinding ray in the hopes of feeling something warm.

Barbossa began to feel a hot rush within his blood as he closed his eyes.

He went cold.


	6. Absent Minded Adventurers

**Chapter 6 – Absent Minded Adventurers**

**---  
**

Jack felt himself being dragged by his arms along a soft surface, dangling by the sleeves of his damp linen shirt, unable to muster the energy to move in order to keep himself warm. Droplets of sea water ran down his face as he vaguely heard the sound of voices, but could not open his eyes to see where they were coming from. He was able to detect a frantic conversation – the voices yelling something about finding more…

'_Finding more of what?' _he thought to himself, observing as the light of the sun attempted to force itself through his eyelids. He groaned, trying to move his arm in the effort of shielding his face from the heat. He winced, feeling a sharp pain pulsating down his left arm, noticing that it felt unusually warm.

* * *

Colin Andrews had made the grim discovery early on the day while taking his morning stroll. The wind blew lightly through his long, dirty blond hair, enjoying the morning rays of sunlight upon his face, looking up at the pinks and oranges that were painted gracefully along the horizon.

Colin was a tall, muscular man, who had spent most of his life serving the English colonies as a soldier, traveling down from Virginia to Florida in the effort to begin a new life with his blushing bride.

He was trained in many forms of combat since he was a child, knowing that he would be a great asset to the colony's general, but had declined the opportunity to join the army.

Colin looked down toward the shore for a moment, hoping to enjoy the poetic manifestation of waves crashing gently upon the sand, yet noticed something unexpected floating in the shallow water. Acting quickly, he ran down to the shore toward the object. His eyes widening as he approached the figure in dismay, realizing that he had stumbled upon the limp carcass of a poor soul lost at sea.

As he turned the body over, his fears were confirmed, it was a man - a dark skinned man, with long black hair adorned with various trinkets. His eyes were tightly shut, but to Colin's relief, his breath was still strong enough to detect. His left arm was injured by a sharp piece of wood, slicing clear though his bicep and bleeding profusely. Without hesitation, Colin pulled the man out of the water and onto dry land by the sleeves of his shirt.

He crouched down beside of the unconscious man, unsure of what to do or where to go from there. He raised his hand above his eyes, shielding them from the harsh sun as he scanned the rest of the beach, resolute in finding some sort of help nearby. His heart dropped as he spotted more dark silhouettes, floating helplessly in the shallow water.

He stood to his feet. "Stay right there, I'll be right back. I promise!" he hollered, running off to find more adequate help.

* * *

"Sir, we found more men down toward the other side of the beach! We're going to need more soldiers from the colony to get them all out before nightfall," Colin yelled, rushing up to the officer in command.

"Thank you, Mr. Andrews. There should be more men coming within the hour, we should be able to get all of them to in the fort before dusk. They must have been stuck in the storm overnight so, let's just be glad none of them are dead," Lieutenant James Moore observed sternly.

Colin had collided into the lieutenant as he was frantically running toward the colony, waving his arms out for someone to help him. Once Colin explained what he had found on the beach, Moore alerted the colony's general immediately.

'_The survivors shall be brought here to the fort. Please, make sure they all receive their own accommodations. Also, begin the repairs on their vessel or what's left of it. I'm sure these men will be in need of some sort of transportation back to where they came from. Once they regain themselves, they can come meet with me before they make way. I'd like to meet these absent minded adventurers… _' Moore thought, recalling the general's orders in his mind.

Lieutenant James Moore did as he was instructed, making his way down to the scene with a handful of the army's strongest soldiers, hoping to save as many lives as they could. Moore was the descendant of a very long line of soldiers, possessing strikingly handsome features even with his harsh demeanor. His statuesque physique appeared to be chiseled from stone, adorned with long, red hair that cascaded down his pronounced jaw line to shoulders.

Moore dressed in common clothes which were preferred by the general, believing that soldiers should wear something a bit more comfortable when training. Moore and the general had found that the soldier's overall performance was better in battle when they were able to move freely without worrying about carrying heavy armor or minding fancy red jackets.

The only thing that weighed Moore down more than his power was his swords. He did not carry just one cutlass, rather he carried two oversized cutlasses wherever he went, crossed like an 'X' on his back.

Moore and Andrews looked on as the soldiers continued to carry limp bodies across the beach. "Jordan! Murphy! Step lively now!" he ordered, quickly turning his attention to the two ships that had washed up on shore.

One of the ships was completely destroyed, with pieces of its once majestic existence floating around a large part of its former white hull. The other ship had toppled over on its side at the other end of the shore. Emanating darkness that was as black as night, maybe even darker. The soldiers had reported finding more bodies around that particular wreckage, meaning that it must have carried a larger crew than its white counterpart. The grim, black ship seemed to have taken a large hit; the main mast had been lost, but with the help of all the men, it could be repaired with time.

"We're going to have to start rebuilding where it lies for now, later on when it's in better condition to move, we can bring it over to the docks for the remainder of the repairs," Moore ordered, turning his attention to the bodies.

"Now, let's get these men out of here!"

* * *

Jack stirred himself awake from his restless slumber, absorbing his soft and comfortable surroundings, realizing that they coincide with the condition he remembered being in. He lifted his hands to his eyes, rubbing away morning fatigue as he felt a sharp pain move down his left arm. He gritted his teeth and let out a low and painful groan.

"Sir, it's best you don't move your arm for now. Your arm was badly injured in the storm," a voice suggested, trying not to startle the man.

He jumped, turning to find a young man sitting at his bedside.

The last thing Jack could recall was the coldness of Poseidon's rage, feeling wave had come over him and his ship like a festering disease. There was no way out and the last thing he remembered seeing was the reflection of bright sun above him as he sank into the dark abyss.

"This isn't the locker is it, lad?" he managed to blurt out, looking down at his arm.

"The locker, sir?" the man inquired, confused by his question.

"I suppose not, the whelp would have been here by now," he answered gravely.

The man looked at Jack, juggling feelings of intrigue and confusion. "Whelp?"

"My apologies, lad," he began. "Captain Jack Sparrow and who may you be?"

"Colin Andrews!" he exclaimed, quickly getting up, smiling brightly as he extended his hand to Jack.

"It's good to see you up, Captain Sparrow. You've been out for awhile; we were starting to get concerned since you've lost quite a bit of blood. Had to have one of our maids change the sheets each morning."

"Ah," he uttered, smiling. "Well, I shall have to thank her personally. But, what about you, lad? Why do you sit at my bedside?"

You were the first one I found, so I thought I'd take care of you myself…"

Jack's eyes grew puzzled, relinquishing his hand wearily, recalling the last time he had shook hands with a stranger, which eventually landed him in prison.

"A few of your men have woken up within the past week. Mr. Gibbs was the first - such a fine man, he's been telling me stories about your adventures at sea.

"Has he, now?"

"Yes, lots of them! The others from your crew have awakened as well. Mr. Pintel and Ragetti, Mr. Murtogg and Mullroy, and Mr. Cotton … who, might I say, is a fine cook! Oh, and Captain Barbossa, but he's been pacing around this place worried about his crew mates as well as yourself, sir."

Jack finally realized where he was – he was dead and he found another whelp.

"Mr. Sparrow?" Colin inquired, noticing Jack's blank stare.

"Captain. It's C_aptain_ Sparrow," he insisted, raising his brow to the young man.

"So, Barbossa made it out alive?

"Yes, sir. He's been inquiring about your condition the whole time."

"Wasn't expecting that …"

"Good man, he is."

Jack spoke after a moment. "Could you be doing me the favor of answering my question here, lad? Where am I?" Jack inquired, beginning to scan the circular stone room.

Sunlight poured onto the dark floors through a small balcony, which showcased a wonderful view of the sea. His bed was large, adorned with gray silk sheets and white crisp pillows. A small wood-burning fireplace sat parallel to him while his belongings were laid down upon a dark wooden chair beside it.

"You're in Florida, Captain Sparrow!" Colin smiled warmly. "We're just a small colony of soldiers. Right near the harbor - it's really a lovely little town. I just moved here myself about a month ago with my wife."

Jack held up his hands to Colin. "That's all fine and dandy, son, but I'm really in need of finding Captain Barbossa. Could you show me to that slimy ol' cur?" Jack narrowed his eyes, smiling half-heartedly.

'_If my Pearl is damaged I'll have his scruffy old head on a platter!' _

"Alright sir, let me help you up. The general told me to keep you as comfortable as possible," Colin stated, taking Jack's good arm, placing it upon his shoulder as he lifted Jack onto his feet.

"The '_general'_, lad? Would you care to elaborate?"

"Jack Sparrow, ye ain't hurt that bad. Stop whining like a little girl and grow a proper set of land legs. We 'ave some serious business to attend to," Barbossa interrupted, laughing as he appeared from the shadow of the doorway.

"Captain Barbossa, how is it that I always seem to find you by my side when I am either dead or dying?"

"_Captain _Barbossa, what is the condition of my _Pearl_?" Jack snarled as they walked briskly down the candlelit stone corridor.

"_My Pearl_ is perfectly fine. She suffered some major damage to the hull and the main mast is God knows where. She's being repaired as we speak," Barbossa explained, stopping to place his hands on his waist.

Jack stopped, resting his hands on his waist as well, mimicking Barbossa.

Jack pointed a knowing finger at Barbossa. "This is all your fault, mate!"

"_My_ fault? Last time I checked ye were the one with the map, navigation boy!"

"Where _is_ the map then, eh? It's no longer in my coat pocket; therefore, you – my thieving and conniving counterpart – must have it in your possession!"

"Jack, we'll not be needin' that map any longer, because we've already found what we were intendin' ta find!"

"Gentlemen!" interrupted a voice.

Both men turned to face a large, red headed figure moving toward them.

"Lieutenant James Moore," he announced. "It's a great pleasure to see you all up and well. The general will be very pleased to see all of you. Unfortunately, you've caught us at a bad time - the soldiers are training at the moment. So, if you'd like, I can assort you to the training room."

Barbossa nodded. "Will we be meetin' with yer general after?"

"Yes, the general wishes to meet with you both about the condition of your ship and the purpose of your journey," he stated, motioning Jack and Barbossa to follow him down the corridor.

"Our purpose?" Barbossa questioned.

"Shut it, mate. Finally, someone is willing introduce me to this bloody general!" Jack grimaced at him.

They followed Moore down to the end of the corridor, finding an overwhelming vast stone staircase, consumed by darkness. Jack and Barbossa spotted a bright light, revitalizing the dark hallway at the bottom of the stairs. They heard the clashing of swords and the agonizing cry of injured men.

Lieutenant Moore stopped at the threshold. "Right this way, gentlemen, no need to fret. We're all really nice people when we live this room," he stated, laughing as he pressed on through the door frame.

Jack and Barbossa stood their ground.

Jack turned to Barbossa. "You first..."

Barbossa growled, rolling his eyes as he hurried passed Jack, pulling him along by his shirt as he walked through the threshold.


	7. General Selene

**Chapter 7 – General Selene**

**---  
**

Glory, praise and honor are the three elements that can make one man distinct from all others. A true warrior must take pride in their spirit while shielding it from doubt. Courage, above all other things, was the mark of a true soldier and honor could only be achieved from the might of their sword.

The art of proper combat serves its purpose: to mold the mind and body and also to cultivate a vigorous spirit within all men. Discipline was fierce and training was harsh, but intended on instilling a strong spirit or bond that could unite each man together as an effective fighting unit – each man taking responsibility for their actions along with the actions of the unit itself.

Their surroundings were barren and dirty, almost dungeon-like, possessing an eerie abundance of light. A crowd of fifty large, barbaric men stood, forming a circle as they watched their comrade's battle in the center. For these men, achieving the status of a warrior was not a simple battle, but a revolution. Jack and Barbossa found themselves standing in the middle of a theater of war.

Their swords were drawn, eyes locked, solidity in their stance, yet anticipating their opponent's next move. Small beads of sweat burned the corners of their eyes as they dripped down to meet the dirt floor. Muscles were bulging through their thin linen shirts, visibly grinding their teeth from the rage of battle.

They were pinned up against their own men, yet they continued to learn valuable lessons.

One of the men suddenly moved forward, charging at his opponent, swinging his sword from high above his head. A loud crash of metal rang in the air; their swords and eyes were locked once more. The war of wits began once again.

Lieutenant Moore turned to face the two pirates, motioning for Jack and Barbossa to come to his side. "This is our combat room where we train for several hours each morning and night. We mostly engage in one-on-one battle situations to promote individual strength development. We want all of our men to be well-rounded in all forms of combat."

Moore was interrupted by a roar of laughter and excitement. One of the men had finally been brought down on his back, with the other standing right above him with the tip of his sword on his opponent's neck.

"It's actually turned into a bit of a challenge."

"Has it, now?" Barbossa inquired.

"You see, once a man has been defeated, the victor is allowed to pick his next opponent while only going up in rank," Moore explained, looking on to see the man's decision.

He stood – as persistent as stone. His blade drawn, scanning the room of large, muscular men.

'_Who will it be?' _he thought, looking deep within the eyes of each brave soul that stood before him, pacing passed some of the finest soldiers known to mankind.

He walked to the very center of the circle of me, smiling as he gripped the smooth leather wrap of his sword.

"I challenge General Selene!" the champion exclaimed, feet planted firmly on the ground.

The room fell silent as the men heard heavy foot steps approaching from the darkness as the rattle of steel echoed throughout the room.

The outskirts of the small crowd began to divide. Voices were no louder than a whisper as the room of men grew still, watching as General Selene appeared within the center of the circle in a matter of minutes. The men had rarely seen the General in combat, but had heard stories of their fearless commander taking the lives of many men.

General Selene was adorned with lorica segmentata armor of the roman ages. The armor of pieces, as it was once called. The light strips of steel were arranged horizontally on the general's small, but muscular body, overlapping downwards. The armor was designed to protect a warrior's torso by surrounding it in two halves, and being fastened at the front and back. The upper body and shoulders were protected by additional strips as well as breast and back plates.

A roman centurion helmet stood gallantly atop the general's head. The Centurion warrior had once had a brutal reputation of being strict and cruel of a trainer as they were an adversary in combat – no doubt the General was living proof of this. The red horse hair crest stood out majestically in the midst of their dreary environment.

Three swords were fastened tightly to the General's back. Two large steel swords were arranged in the form of an 'X' while another small sword, the Roman Gladius, went straight down the center.

To Jack, the General seemed a lot smaller in stature than any of the other men in the room, his body appeared to be a bit too delicate.

Standing still and strong in front of the courageous challenger; the General's eyes were glaring, and wrists began to clench.

General Selene placed both hands upon the rough leather sword handles, pulling out both of the large steel blades with ease.

"On your knees, dog!"

The challenger lunged forward at General Selene, his sword angled to his side, harboring a powerful upward swing. Before the blade met its target, General Selene crossed the swords, forming an X, catching his blade mid-air. A loud clash echoed throughout the stone room as they remained in that position for several, agonizing minutes, pushing one another back and forth, as if they were testing their opponent's physical and mental strength.

General Selene suddenly broke the hold on the challenger's sword, leaping to the side as his blade forcefully hit the ground, spotted an opening as the challenger fell forward. The circle of men watched as the speed of the two fighters caused their actions to blur before their eyes.

Before General Selene could instill a final blow, the challenger spun around, raising his sword above his head, acting as a thin shield to the blow, catching the blade before it met with his back.

They were locked once more. General Selene's free sword pulsated, alerting the general that it could still be put to good use, but the General had already decided not to use it just yet.

The challenger broke the hold they had on one another and began to strike once more. Both fighters fought and parried around one another skillfully, as if they were evenly matched. General Selene quickly dodged another attack, leaning back to strike again.

The grip on General Selene's sword began to loosen, the leather wrapping becoming slippery in hand from rivers of sweat. Losing grip of the sword, General Selene watching as it flew down to the ground as the challenger delivered the final blow on the general's head.

In one final effort, General Selene extended the pulsating sword up in the air, letting the tip rest lightly upon the challenger's neck as the General fell to the ground.

The blade of the challenger's sword hit the shiny steel of the general's helmet causing it t bend inwardly, slicing a chunk of it open. The challenger felt the cold steel blade touching the apple in his throat and relinquished his blade.

General Selene's dark, brown hair was released from its steel cell as the centurion helmet cracked, falling to the floor. Grabbing hold of her sword, she ran it into the ground, lifting herself up onto her feet.

There she stood, in all of her glory. Her face was sweaty and her dark Egyptian lines of kohl dripped down from her eyes, masked behind a shield of long, wavy hair flowing down to the end of her lower back.

"A draw," she uttered, wiping her mouth with her wrist.

"Well done, Jordan … or should I say, _Lieutenant_ Jordan?" she inquired, giving the man a sly smirk.

"I consider myself lucky to be wearing a helmet. Imagine what you can accomplish in a real battle," she stated proudly, catching her breath.

She picked up the pieces of the shattered helmet, examining it with a scrupulous eye.

"I'm going to need a blacksmith," she concluded, retrieving her fallen sword, placing both of the heavy swords back in their individual sheaths.

"Thank you! You won't regret it! I promise," Jordan reassured triumphantly, realizing the implications of being promoted to the rank of Lieutenant. He now could serve alongside his General in battle.

Jordan's comrades were parading around him, letting out cheers of accomplishment and joy.

* * *

"A woman?" Jack pondered aloud, quickly turning to Barbossa. "You knew of this, didn't you?"

"I can't help the fact that yer ignorant, Jack," Barbossa spat.

He sighed. "There'll be no reasoning with her."

* * *

"It seems as though you've lost your touch, General?" Moore teased, smiling at the young woman who was now standing just a few feet away.

"I have to let someone else win every once in awhile, you know I'm getting far too old to do this on my own," she laughed, turning her gaze over to the two men who stood close by.

"Are these our guests?" Moore nodded, looking over at the two beside him.

She walked over to Captain Barbossa who stood the closest to her loyal lieutenant. Barbossa greeted her with a welcoming smile, taking off his large hat as he bowed to the woman. She returned his kindness, giving him humble smile in return. Her dark eyes met his as he came up from his bow.

"Cleopatra Selene, 'tis a pleasure to finally be in yer presence. I am Captain Hector Barbossa of the _Black Pearl_."

Jack rolled his eyes, watching as Barbossa repositioned his black hat upon his head.

Her eyes dropped to the floor; her smile subsiding. "No one has called me that name in centuries, Captain Barbossa. Don't even think I fancy it any longer," she began.

"My name now is Isabella Selene. I am nothing but an old, humble soldier," She paused for a moment, setting her gaze, once again, to the old captain's face.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Captain," her smile returned as he tipped his hat to her in respect.

Isabella shifted her attention the visibly annoyed looking man standing to the right of Captain Barbossa. He was surely an enigmatic presence, flashing a golden smile as his dark eyes locked onto hers, soaking her in. She extended her hand to him to take.

Jack softly grasped her hand, bowing to place a supple kiss on her fingers, slightly tickling her with his mustache.

"Captain Jack Sparrow, at your service."

Isabella smiled, letting a soft chuckle escape her lips. "Captain Sparrow, there is no need for ceremony. I am no lady of the court, or empress of the land. Although, I am quite flattered that you and your men have traveled through Poseidon's rage just to visit me. He can be quite a prick."

Jack let her hand drop to her side. "I can see why, he wouldn't want to be losing something so fine."

Jack eyed her intently, scanning her features. Her round brown eyes were outlined with black kohl which extended all the way to her temples; the look was typical of Egyptian woman as well as men of royalty.

Even with her rough exterior, Jack sensed a hit of delicacy in her – something she probably did not want any man to detect.

She turned away from the two pirates, lifting her arms up to address her men.

"Gentlemen, I believe it's time for a much needed break. Tonight, we shall hold a great feast in honor of our visitors. So, training shall end early today so all of you smelly barbarians can bathe and feast with me and these fine men!" she stated, followed by a roar of agreement from the tired, young soldiers.

She quickly, walking toward the two captains positioned behind her. "I shall see you this evening, gentlemen," she stated, smiling brightly with her eyes, beginning to walk towards the doorway.

She stopped rather reluctantly in front of Jack. "Captain Sparrow, I hope you intend on joining us this evening, I sense a bit of hesitation from you," she stated, slightly cocking her head to the side.

"You can call me Jack, love. No need for ceremony," he cocked his head as well to meet her gaze. "Will there be rum, love?"

"Only the best, Captain. I've got the finest aged-dated rum that has ever been distilled on this rock, mixed from different vintages and batches that might surely strike your fancy," she teased.

"How many years?" he inquired promptly, raising a hand to his chin.

"Fifteen years, to be exact."

"In that case, I wouldn't miss it for the world," he whispered, smiling.


	8. The Legendary Sun and Moon

**Chapter 8 – The Legendary Sun and Moon**

**---**

The great hall of the fort was lavishly decorated in honor of crew's arrival that very evening. It was hard to believe how beautiful the interior had become with thoughtful preparation and a bit of diligence. Six hanging candelabrums were lit, illuminating the great hall's stone walls with an amber glow. A magnificent table was set with fine red satins placed delicately upon crisp white linens. Gold goblets and excellent meats were already prepared on the table as Jack, Barbossa and their crew leisurely entered the room. Many of Isabella's soldiers we're already present, drinking fine ale, whiskey and rum from artfully painted mugs.

"Captains! It is a pleasure to see you both here this evening!" Lieutenant Moore exclaimed, handing them mugs of rum. "I heard you lot enjoy rum?"

Both Jack and Barbossa accepted the drinks, relaxing as the rich, spicy liquid spilled down their throats.

Jack mulled the liquid over in his mouth for a moment. "Aye, she was right."

The men exchanged pleasantries as the rest of the soldier's sauntered into the room, rejoicing with laughter and joy. The newly appointed Lieutenant Jordan was the center of discussion that evening. Jordan wore his nicest chemise and breeches, along with nicely polished boots. Jordan also proudly sported a patch of honor, which was identical to the one Lieutenant Moore triumphantly displayed on his chest. Jordan's long, dark hair was slicked back behind his ears to highlight his cheerfully masculine face. One thing was for certain, the soldiers were truly grateful to have a night off in the honor of Lieutenant Jordan and their new found friends from across the Caribbean Sea.

Colin Andrews also mingled amongst the soldiers while a ravishing young woman held onto his muscular arm. Her shoulder length blond hair was almost as enchanting as her ice blue eyes. She wore an emerald green dress, with a tight corset. Subtle white ruffles traced her rather large bust line. Although many eyes were upon her - her eyes were steady on her handsome husband. She gave him a warm smile and rested her head against his arm. She was one of the many women who attended the feast this evening. Some of the women were just acquaintances of Isabella and some were married to her soldiers. Colin Andrew's wife, Grace, had quickly become a dear friend of Isabella when she moved to the colony.

Once all of the guests had arrived, the chefs of the fort carried out the finest great roast pork atop a bed of rich potatoes, plates of freshly grilled fish, and loaves hot bread. The hungry visitors followed the savory smell all the way to the table, and sat themselves down to finally enjoy the meal they had been waiting for all afternoon. Jack and Barbossa had been treated like Kings since they washed up on shore. They not only had their _own_ living accommodations but were now _honorary_ guests at a great feast held in _their_ honor.

Isabella had entered the great hall, virtually unnoticed by the crowd of men laughing and telling tales of their various journeys. Jack and Barbossa had chimed in with their own exploits. Isabella listened as Jack illustrated his experience on Pelegosto Island - an island inhabited by a vicious Cannibal tribe that had captured the _Pearl's_ crew and even _ate_ some of the crewmen.

"And then, they made me their chief," Jack explained, arms in the air, clearly enjoying the attention he was getting.

Jack continued to tell his captivated audience about how he was treated as a god in human form and how the tribe planned to eat him. "They wanted to release me from my fleshy prison. I think it would have been a shame really..."

The soldiers had not started their own feast yet; they decided to enjoy themselves with drink until their General cut the ceremonial roasted pork with her very hands.

A few moments later, Barbossa chimed in with a tale of how he sailed to the ends of the world to save Jack from the clutches of Davy Jones' Locker. Barbossa explained how the pirate lord of Singapore, possessed a map to the gateway at world's end where Jack was to be eternally imprisoned after being taken by the Kraken.

The soldiers were most certainly mesmerized by the courageous tales told by both of the captains, prompting Lieutenant Moore to rise up from his seat. "A toast, to Captain Barbossa, for risking his skin to save his illustrious friend, Captain Jack Sparrow!"

Jack shuddered. _Friend_. A term he could never imagine using. It was definitely not a term to be used for the likes of _Captain_ Barbossa. He had not even considered it for the whelp turned Davy Jones. '_Although_, _the whelp did save me a handful of times_, _for selfish reasons, of course!' _he thought to himself.

Newly appointed Lieutenant Jordan stood up, meeting Moore at the head of the table. "And this drink is dedicated to Captain Jack Sparrow, for being a good man, and saving his crew from sudden death!" The men and women lifted their glasses as they looked in Jack's direction.

"A good man," he uttered softly, smiling as his mind wondered back to the day that he had been taken, body and soul, by the jaws of the Kraken. He had given his life to do the "right" thing by saving his crewmen and, later on, the whelp.

Isabella appeared from behind Murtogg and Mullroy with a goblet of rum in her hand.

"And this one is for all of my men. To all those who have served gallantly under my command for many years, this drink is for your fathers and their great grandfathers! They would all be proud to see what fine men you all have become," she stated proudly, placing a hand on her chest to fight back appreciative tears as she smiled at her men as they all joined in drinking their goblets dry.

Jack found himself studying the timidly strong woman. His gaze couldn't help but rest upon her as she walked passed the table, greeting her men with a great tone of joy hanging in her voice. She was dressed in a simple azure, empire waist gown that hugged her breasts snugly. The rest of the flowing fabric fell lightly around her feminine curves.

A river of long, brown hair suggestively curled down her lean back, tied back to showcase her deep, brown eyes as they glimmered beneath dim candlelight. Encasing her devilish eyes within an Egyptian kohl prison seemed like the right thing to do since they appeared to have had an agenda of their own, penetrating the souls of each man that stood before her. No telling what they could accomplish if their spirit was set free.

_'A beautiful soul that walks alone, as silent as the night, yet as lonely as the moon,_' he thought, eying her intently as if she had shed the tough and dirty exterior for something more soft and delicate. How she got through the crowd unnoticed was far beyond his comprehension.

Her muscles were no longer as tense as they were earlier that morning. Each drop of rum that surpassed her lips seemed to relax to a greater extent. As Jack began to turn his attention to Mr. Gibbs, who sat loyally by his side, he noticed a gold snake bracelet slithering up her forearm, accenting a black sun and moon tattoo on her wrist.

Isabella did not take a seat at the head of the table as most Generals would. In fact, no one had treated her as someone of a higher rank; she was treated as an equal amongst her men, and seemed to prefer it that way.

She took a seat between the slender Ragetti and the portly Pintel who sat towards the center, nearest the roasted pork which was no coincidence. She appeared to be intrigued by their personalities and amused by their constant squabbling, starting to laugh and joke with them almost immediately.

Murtogg and Mullroy sat adjacent to the threesome and all five of them began talking and exploring their pasts.

"Oi, Rags! Remember the time we got chased by those half-brained, fish people?" Pintel inquired, slapping Ragetti's back in jest, causing his wooden eye to shoot out before him.

Isabella caught it at before it fell into his rum goblet. "Cat-like reflexes, gentlemen," she stated softly as she smiled, returning the eye to Ragetti, who was visibly ecstatic.

"I didn't 'ave to chase it around like a blind git!" Ragetti exclaimed, spitting on the wooden eye and popped it back into his socket.

She grinned and happily gestured for Colin Andrews to pass the rum.

* * *

"Gibbs," Jack whispered, nudging Gibbs in the ribs as he cleared his throat.

He coughed, placing a hand on his chest, surprised by the hit. "Aye?"

"What do you know of her?" he asked cautiously.

"Who?" he inquired, watching as Jack's eyes drift down along the table toward the young general.

"The lady?" Gibbs inquired through a mouthful of pork. "I know fer sure its bad luck to have a woman general. Not good for the men to have that sort of temptation around."

"No, no, no!" he interrupted, waving his arms to stop him from uttering another word. "Not that! I've heard many long, forgotten tall tales from you, Josh. Do you have a story pertaining to the lass? Don't disappoint me, now."

"I only be knowin' a bit of her lengthy tale. It's better that ye be hearin' it from the horse's mouth, in my opinion," he stated gravely, but to his dismay, it appeared as though Jack clearly would not accept that sort of opinion, continuing to look at him with his eyebrows raised and mug of rum in hand.

"Well, if ye be really interested it in Cap'n, I'll tell ye of the tale," he stated reluctantly, pausing for a few moments before continuing on.

"Legend has it; she's the only daughter of Marc Antony and that devilish imp, Queen Cleopatra of Egypt. Born the twin sister of Alexander Helios – both symbolically named after the sun and the moon. She was chosen by the gods to carry out a mission of sorts - to defeat the Ares, God of War, and take his place amongst them as an equal. The gods let her drink from the Fountain of Youth so that she could not depart this life when she faced him."

Gibbs felt Jack eying him intently, soaking in every word that he had spoken.

"Well? What happened? She's clearly here among us, mate."

"She failed," Gibbs finally spat, looking down at his plate, fingers entwined with one another. "Poor lass… I don' know why exactly, but the gods banished her. Gave her nothing but the clothes on 'er back an' the ability to not die. That's all I be knowin', Jack."

Gibbs began to look uncomfortable, fidgeting in his seat. He was a superstitious man and Jack knew, as plain as day, that he did not want anything to do with the heathen gods, so he did not press the matter.

"How exactly did you come across this tale, if you don't mind me asking? I've never heard of it," Jack slurred as he stole a glance of Isabella laughing at one of Murtogg's jokes, clapping her hands as she took a small swig of rum herself. "Well, truth is, I have heard of it, but it seems that they failed to mention that the guardian was, in fact, a woman."

"It's not a well known legend, sir. It's not as clear as Davy Jones or the locker itself. Many men jus' don't believe it ta be true. Anyone who even tries to find out fer sure has been taken by the gods before findin' out how real it truly is."

* * *

She felt his warm eyes fixed upon her skin. She had noticed him gazing at her for quite some time, feeling his quick little glances and sly smiles even when she did not look over in his direction. She couldn't help the fact that she felt flattered by his coyness, feeling her cheeks grow warm and rosy. She had felt this sensation before, and did not want to experience it again. Or did she? But did not want to admit it? Her mind fell silent while her heart grew loud with each additional drink of rum and whiskey.

She was amidst a blood boiling discussion between Murtogg and Mullroy about the fish people aboard the _Flying Dutchman. _Mullroy was insisting that the lack of discipline aboard the vessel was due to the fact that they were, in fact, fish people.

Once the food had been happily savored and locked away in their stomachs, some of Isabella's men and their wives had taken to the empty space near the table with instruments, and started playing a tune for the rest of the guests to enjoy. Many of the men and woman had gotten up to dance, but it was obvious that the drink had gone to their heads, thus their dancing turned into stumbling about merrily to the sound of fiddles and flutes.

Hours had past since the roasted pork had been devoured. Many of the soldiers were now retiring to their rooms accompanied by their lovely wives. Isabella excused herself from the ongoing fish people discussion and made her way to the small terrace to enjoy the fresh breeze that came from the sea.

Jack found himself amidst a group of the lovely women, chatting away about his daring adventures, flashing his famous, devious smiles in all directions. He simply couldn't help himself, for he was armed with a half empty bottle of rum. Leaning up against the stone wall, he cooed each woman with a seductive look and countless words of extraordinary circumstance. One of the women even went as far as playing with some of the trinkets in Jack's long, dark hair.

Isabella found herself strolling in his direction, smiling to herself as she waited for the opportune moment.

She sauntered over towards the group after a few minutes and sighed. "You're quite popular with the ladies aren't you? You must be quite the charming gentleman."

Jack smiled and stroked his beard with his fingertips. "So it seems," he began. "You can say that I possess a power of sorts," he mused. "One that is only detectable to those who can truly distinguish it."

"A power, you say?" she laughed. "I've never heard of such a thing. I would say it would only be a matter of inquisitiveness."

"Are you implying that you might, in fact, be a tad bit curious about dear ol' Jack?"

"I'm not implying anything _Captain _Sparrow; I was just making an observation of the situation at hand," she retaliated, slowly taking a few steps toward him. "Whether or not you'd like to change the current situation by accompanying me outside onto the terrace is an entirely different story."

She gracefully stepped around him, slightly brushing her bare arm against his as she walked toward the terrace entrance, brushing aside the thin white curtains as she entered. Her body was greeted by the cool night air.

Jack quickly excused himself from the anxious group of ladies with a bow. "My apologies, tarts, but I'm obviously needed elsewhere."

He stepped through the stone threshold only to find Isabella standing alone with her arms leisurely resting upon the stone rail before her.

"It is a fine night isn't it, Captain?" She felt his warmth behind her, his eyes staring a hole into her back. She looked over her shoulder to find his answer.

"Aye, that it is," he agreed, letting his eyes roam through the night sky, licking his lips before drowning himself in the last drops of rum from his bottle.

"And your arm? How is feeling?"

"S'fine, you know, if you reject the sense of your injury, the injury itself seems to just disappear."

"A fine piece of optimism, Captain. I wish that most men would think just as you do."

He smirked, slowly moving toward where she was standing, enjoying the evening breeze.

"What's troubling your mind? You appeared to be lost in your thoughts all evening. Are you not the man all your crew members spoke so highly of?" she inquired softly.

"I would be perfectly fine if _Captain _Barbossa would refrain from stealing _my _bloody ship every chance he got!" he yelled over his shoulder, in the hopes that Barbossa would be listening in on their conversation.

"Ah ha! So, _you _are you rightful captain of the _Black Pearl_?" she asked, raising her brow.

"Always have been and always will be, love." he stated, leaning up against the stone rail, looking up at the moon.

"Be that as it may, I'm not one for life on land. I'd rather be feeling the evening breeze on my ship than feeling it from this rock any day. The _Pearl_ is my freedom, and it pains me to see her in the hands of any other man who is incapable of handling her."

"Ah, freedom. What a voracious luxury," she debated. "Freedom has not been in my nature for centuries, Jack. So, I would not know of what you speak of," She looked down at her hands, eying her long slender fingers as they traced the intricate imprints of stone, softly resting them against the rail.

There was a momentary pause between them, though the pair remained quiet for quite some time, their silence made more noise than a howling thunder storm.

"Are the stories true?" he finally asked.

"It appears as though my story has been viciously slanted over the course of time," she responded skeptically.

He leaned in to her. "Mind telling me the real version?" he inquired. "Because who you really were in the past inadvertently affects whoever you may be now."

"Are you really that interested?"

"I wouldn't have a left a room full of willing tarts if I were not. Besides, it'll be a chance the set the story straight once and for all," he persuaded, realizing her hesitation.

She paused for a moment, taking in a longing breath of crisp night air. "I am the only living descendant of Queen Cleopatra and Marc Antony and sister of a once loving and fair brother, Alexander Helios," she started softly.

"When I was a child, my father took the time to teach my brother and me how to properly run a kingdom. He taught us of politics and policies, but most of all, my father placed a great importance on teaching us how to raise a grand army and fight for what we believed in.

"Of course, my mother did not want that life for me. It was uncommon for women of my time to fight, so she taught me to be a proper Queen just as she. To be honest, I don't remember it all too well. I was just a child. My parents so happened to be controversial rulers of Alexandria and wanted nothing but the best for the both of us," Isabella grew silent for a moment to regain her thoughts.

"As you might have heard, my parents committed suicide as Octavian's army invaded Egypt. I was taken, along with my brother, back to Italy to be raised by that ruthless cow, Octavia Minor - my father's former wife.

"Her hatred for us was palpable enough for her to sell me into slavery," she stated, biting her lip, attempting to calm her anger. "I was a slave to the roman army, out of spite for my father's deceit! She sold me while I was still young, knowing that it was not easy to tell whether I was a man or woman. She cut my hair to the root and threw me to the lions.

"Twelve long years I spent in a godforsaken cell, killing more than my fair share of men for the amusement of others as she sat high on her pedestal deep within the crowd.

"I fought each day and slept in dungeons of dirt. My hands covered in blood, I was fierce and held a ravenous hunger for blood – the blood of my fellow man. The cheers of the crowd ignited my hunger for more. So, I continued on, cutting my hair and tying down my chest as best I could with whatever scraps of clothing I could find. I trained myself in solitude, like a beast.

"I had not known it, but _they_ were watching me. They watched me suffer for years … they watched me become an animal," she whispered softly, trying to fight back the long forgotten memories and constant anger she held in her heart.

"They finally called upon me, one night. The heathen god, Hera, came to me in the darkness of night, promising me salvation if I simply took her hand. Assuring me that she would lead me away from the brutal world that I had become so accustomed to, so she offered me a choice, either die cold and alone or to fight in the name of the gods and become her immortal ally."

She slowly turned to meet Jack's eyes, watching as a look of sympathy plagued his face. She grimaced, knowing that she did not want or need his sympathy. Yet, he could not help feeling sorry for the young woman, for he could not imagine living a life of slavery, without the freedom he possessed. He would not wish it on his worst enemy.

"I was to fight Ares, God of War. The other heathen gods no longer favored him; he had and still continues to have more power than we could ever imagine. So, she took me to the fountain, divulging its secret location to my eyes and ears alone. I was honored to except her mission and I drank from it because I _thought_ it was what I wanted. I did not know at the time that I would always be a slave to the gods, succumbing to their every wish and command, doing their sinful bidding.

"I finally realized it during my battle with Ares. I realized that I was fighting a being, not of this world, because he wanted something that I've always wished for…"

"What was that?" he inquired with eagerness.

"Freedom," she replied, smirking before she turned her eyes back out into the night.

"I let myself appear vulnerable and, in turn, become vulnerable to him. I let him stab my heart with his blade, because for a moment, I did not feel invincible. I felt nothing. I was and still am the living dead, forever trapped in a life of blood and solitude while his anger and rage still lives on within me.

Isabella's fingers grazed the very top of the old wound on her chest.

"So, you are not a god then?" he inquired, curiously.

"I'm no more a god then you are an innocent adventurer," she retorted.

"I had failed my mission and for that, I was banished. I had escaped to different parts of the world every now and then, so I could not be found. I had no one. They _murdered_ my brother, you know?

"My poor, sweet brother," she muttered. "He did not deserve to die a dirty and dishonorable death. He was a good man, a grand ruler. Just like my father," she confirmed.

He felt great sorrow for her and wanted nothing more but to stop the overwhelming feeling of grief that came from within her. He took hold of her shaking hands, causing her to calm as she stood there with him for just a moment. Her eyes tingled from the warmth of her tears, yet they never came. Jack found himself running his fingers lightly along her wrist and palms, attempting to comfort her.

Anger filled her heart once more. "No!" she yelled, relinquishing her hands. "I know why you're here, Jack. You're not here for the sake of an adventure. You are here for your own selfish wants and needs! You do not care for me or my pain. No storm of that nature would have been conjured by Poseidon for any _ordinary_ traveler. You will _use_ me, Jack, just like everyone else has."

She stormed off the terrace, the tears in her eyes glistening under the dim candlelight, and disappeared amid the dancing crowd.


	9. A Late Night Offer

**Chapter 9 – A Late Night Offer**

**---**

News of Isabella's sudden illness spread throughout the colony the very next morning. Not only had she not joined her men in the training room, but she had dismissed her chefs when they attempted to bring her food of any kind. Isabella only requested for her dearest friend, Arianna, to join her in her rooms for the day.

Dawn had risen over the Floridian horizon; the first light of day had at last made its way through Jack's balcony windows.

"Finally," Jack muttered to himself, lying face down on his pillow. He no longer had to force himself to sleep another second since he had not gone after Isabella the previous evening and had not slept soundly because of it.

He rose from his comfortable bed, slipped his shirt on top of his bare chest, pulling on his boots before looked out onto the balcony, letting the warm sun touch his tan skin, smelling the sweet sea air from afar as he sighed longingly.

That morning, Jack had decided to join Captain Barbossa and Lieutenant Moore out on the docks to view the ongoing repairs on the _Black Pearl_. Barbossa was standing on the main dock, ordering several of his crew to help with the repairs. Lieutenant Moore was in the middle of heaving wooden boards onto the deck.

"Good morning, Captain Sparrow!" Moore said, waving from the _Pearl's_ main deck.

"It is a fine day, Lieutenant. Is it not?" Jack said, amazed at the diligent work being done to the hull. Jack then turned his attention to Barbossa, who was standing several feet away from him, his dark hat shielding his face from the morning sun while Jack the monkey was sat loyally on his shoulder.

"Hector! How admirable of you to take charge in whilst I was away but now I must ask for you to step aside, mate. I need to assess the damages on _my_ ship."

"You'll be doin' nothin' of the sort, Jack," Barbossa growled possessively.

Jack side stepped to the right of Barbossa, finding that he had also side stepped to stop him from going any further. Jack stepped to the left, Barbossa followed.

"Will you bloody let me go by you slimy cur?"

"Jack, ye be givin' me no reason to let you pass," he retorted as Jack tried to push by Barbossa once more.

Jack the monkey screeched at Jack, jumping on his head. Jack quickly reached for his pistol as the monkey frantically pulled at his dark hair and trinkets. He hated that damn monkey, wanting nothing more but to shoot it dead with every ounce of his being.

"Hold still you bloody, evil-" Jack began, unable to finish his sentence, tripping over a coil of rope which was left carelessly on the edge of the dock, falling down into the tranquil water as Jack the monkey jumped to safety on Barbossa's arm.

Jack sank underneath the surface, watching the bright sun slowly fade away. Jack could hear Barbossa laughing wickedly from underwater. He quickly swam back up to the surface to face his hysterical rival, gasping for air.

"Now since you're just floatin' there, lets jus' get one thing straight. Ye will be not layin' a hand on my _Pearl_ until ye be givin' me good reason to so, and the only good reason I can think of is if I be dead!"

"That can be arranged," he spat, lifting himself back onto the dock, utterly drenched and utterly irate. His teeth tightly clenched, gripping his pistol once more as he pointed it at Jack the monkey, vengefully pulling the trigger. Yet, nothing happened. Barbossa flashed a victorious smile, looking at him skeptically.

"Jack, ye be knowin' better than that," Barbossa smiled.

Jack put his pistol away and grimaced at the laughing monkey on Barbossa's shoulder.

"Wet powder," Jack confirmed, wrinkling his nose at the furry pest.

"Have ye been able to convince the fine Isabella to take us to our predisposed destination?" Barbossa inquired, changing the conversation.

"Regrettably not, but she will come over to my side, I know it."

"Ye better 'ope so Jack… Now I suggest that ye be headin' back to yer rooms and leavin' the real work to these capable men."

Jack narrowed his brow, turning on his heel, beginning to walk away. He felt defeated, gazing at his boots as he turned his gaze to the _Pearl _once more, realizing that there was another ship alongside it that was being prepared to sail.

She was a dark mahogany brown, with brilliant white sails; gold colored writing graced her escutcheon. _Hellride_. This one-hundred and fifty ton, eighty foot vessel looked like it could carry around a hundred men while mounting ten cannons.

She didn't match the _Pearl_ in size, but in speed? That was to be determined. _The Hellride_ had two masts. Her main sail was fitted with square sails, which were unsurpassed in quartering wind. It was clear that this ship was being sent out for a long journey, one that might entail battle or combat.

Jack noticed Colin Andrews carrying several wooden crates of supplies over to the_ Hellride_ and decided to quickly make his way over to Colin's side.

"Mr. Andrews! Fine day for sailing, is it not?" Jack said as he flung his wet arms in the air, sending a few sprinkles of water onto Colin's surprised face.

"Oh! Captain Sparrow! You startled me!" said Colin, placing the wooden crates down onto the dock to properly greet Jack.

"I wouldn't really know, sir. I'm not exactly a sailor, actually to tell you the truth, I've never sailed a day in my life," he laughed, scratching the back of his head. "Anyway, General Selene has asked all of the men in the colony to help prepare this ship for sail."

"Ah, that's interesting. What is your heading if you don't mind me asking? Because it seems to me that a ship like this," he began, holding his arms up towards the _Hellride, "_would only be prepared for a rather long and strenuous journey."

"Not sure, sir. I'm not a soldier so I'm not at liberty to say. I, personally, shall not be present for this particular voyage," he said, looking over to Lieutenant Jordan, who was waiting for Colin to bring the remainder of the wooden crates on board.

"I'm sorry Captain Sparrow, but I must get back to work. This ship must be ready by sunset," Colin stated hastily, picking up the crates once more, hurrying off to the gangway of the_ Hellride_.

"Well, that wasn't entirely helpful. A voyage consisting of the lovely General Selene and all of her dedicated soldiers sounds rather enticing, although, if she truly was banished to this rock by the gods, then they would not allow her to leave _that_ easily," he pondered aloud.

'_Where could they be heading that is of the utmost importance?' _he thought, holding a hand up to his beard. "_Important enough that their destination is held under utmost secrecy?' _

Jack looked over at the _Hellride_ once more, fixing his mustache with his fingertips. "That's very interesting."

* * *

The dark haired Arianna found herself leaving Isabella's bedchamber when she spotted the rogue walking towards her. He was completely drenched from head to toe and was leaving a trail of wet footprints behind him.

'_I just cleaned that floor!'_ she thought to herself, already becoming annoyed with the man.

"Good morning, m'lady. Might I inquire as to the condition of our fair lady Isabella?"

'_Ah ah! So this is the man who vexes Isabella…' _

"Captain Sparrow," she began politely. "Miss Isabella does not wish to speak with any of the men today. She is still not feeling well at this moment."

Jack took a few steps towards the door. "I assure you, dearie, this won't take long … I just wish to ask-"

"Captain Sparrow!" the annoyed woman interrupted. "As I said, Isabella is not feeling well at the moment. So, I suggest you go back to your rooms … perhaps wash up a bit - you smell like hell. And, please, try to remain there for the rest of the day."

She quickly turned away from him, heading in the opposite direction. Jack stood there quite stunned at the treatment he was receiving from everyone who crossed his path that morning.

He ran his fingers along the intricate woodwork upon Isabella's chamber door, but did not enter. He would do exactly what Arianna told him to do. Firstly, because he was afraid of Arianna stumbling into him once he was in Isabella's room.

'_That would not be a pretty sight,'_ he thought, imagining the flogging he would receive from the woman.

Secondly, Arianna said to stay in his rooms for the remainder of the day, but was mum as to being able to return to see Isabella later that evening.

* * *

Jack pushed open the old wooden doors, peeking in to assess his surroundings. He masterfully slithered himself into the candle lit room without a sound, watching as the moonlight poured down onto the garnet floors through the open balcony. The light evening wind gave life to the thin white curtains causing them to flow gently in and out of the room as they pleased. His eyes followed the lit candles down to a large four poster bed, with the figure of Isabella lying on her back.

"Leave me," she spoke weakly.

"I'm not ready to leave just yet, tart," he stated, causing Isabella's head to shoot up in shock, realizing who it was. She saw Jack rummaging through her belongings, burning his hand on a candle while picking up some of her ancient bits and pieces.

"Bugger!" he cursed under his breath.

She laughed quietly to herself as he blew on his palm.

Jack took off his tricorne hat, casually tossing it onto the candle lit table as his eyes continued to scan his surroundings.

The room was not as lavishly decorated as he might have imagined. He was able to make out several book shelves, an armoire, a few mounted swords, and a mirror on the wall to the adjacent to her bed. Some shiny pieces of silver on the table had instantly caught his eye. They appeared to be ancient silver coins. He proceeded to pick up the few tattered coins to study them under one of the larger candles. On the coin's front lay a very crude depiction of a woman's profile, yet it seemed too masculine to be any sort of woman Jack had ever laid eyes on. The nose was far too large and much too square of a jaw. The face was surrounded by small inscription: ΒΑΣΙΛΙΣΣΑ ΚΛΕΟΠΑΤΡΑ._ Queen Cleopatra_.

"No doubt that the men who made these coins have never seen your face before."

"That's because it is not my face that graces those coins, Captain Sparrow," she stated knowingly, laughing as she propped herself up on her elbows to watch him. She did not mind his curious nature, instead she found him rather amusing.

"Ah! So you are not really ill at all are you? And it's Jack, love. No need for formalities amongst pirates," he smirked, strolling over to her large bed, wrapping his left arm tightly around one of the wooden posters while tossing her the coin. She studied it a bit, running her fingers around the rough silver edges.

"I supposed it was a passing illness," she lied.

Isabella studied the man before her, secretly, through the mirror beside her bed. He was not wearing his coat or his blue vest that evening. His thin linen shirt was loose upon his upper body, letting his chest lay bare to her lingering gaze. She could see two dark scars on right side of his tan, muscular chest. Jack followed her eyes to the mirror and finally noticed that she was, in fact, watching him very intently. He smiled deviously at her causing her to quickly return her thoughts to the coin in her hand.

"Many people believe that Octavia married me off to Emperor Juda II of Africa, so it would appear as if she was an excellent and sympathetic 'mother' figure to my brother and me. But, regrettably, the evidence is all to the contrary," she replied, swinging her legs over the side of her bed, letting her loose fitting cotton nightdress fall to her feet.

"But, instead of sending me to Juda, she sent one of her daughters, Antonia Major, the eldest of the two. And of course, the good emperor gave Antonia an enormous dowry and named her Queen of Numidia. So, not only did she provide a good marriage for her daughter but she created another ally for Italy," she sneered, holding her hand out to Jack.

"Seems as though she possessed a need to achieve some sort of restitution causing her to turn to the dark side of ambition," Jack whispered, placing remainder of the coins in her warm, smooth palm, letting his fingers linger for just a moment.

"There's a dark side to each one of us, Jack. You should know," she retorted, looking deeply into his eyes.

She let her fingers lightly graze over the two gun shot wounds on Jack's muscular chest. "How did you come about acquiring these two scars?" Isabella inquired, taking several steps closer to him, mesmerized by the way his flesh healed over, leaving two dark, circular shapes.

She lightly grazed the edges, breathing ever so lightly upon his chest as she probed. Jack felt his desire rise with every touch, her fingertips carefully skimmed the tender spots of his wound, and it made his body quiver.

Isabella and Jack were less than arms length apart, and Jack could feel the temptation starting to rise within his hands, longing to feel her smooth flesh beneath his finger tips as he slowly leaned into her, but he could not muster the courage to lay his hand upon her. The last thing Jack wanted at this moment was for her curious and seductive touch to turn into an angry retaliation.

Jack regained his composure. "A true gentleman does not speak of such things, darling," He purred, flashing her a smile that insinuated how he longed for her to continue her exploration, considering their circumstances – with the supple bed in close proximity, she could explore him all night if it suited her fancy.

"You must be a true gentleman, then," she whispered. To his dismay, she calmly pulled his shirt over the two scars and patted it softly.

"Siren," he whispered softly.

Isabella smiled. "Or so it seems."

She and made her way passed Jack to a small wooden cabinet under her table of trinkets. She held up an aged bottle of wine and a large glass.

"A drink then!" she started. "In honor of my _grand_ impostor, too bad she had to butcher my face for all eternity on those blasted coins," she laughed, pouring a rather large glass for herself, giving Jack the rest of the bottle.

"You know me too well ready, love," He replied coolly, holding the bottle in the air to meet with her glass.

She grabbed one of the larger candles from her table and brought it down to the floor towards the front of her bed. She sat down beside it, motioning for Jack to join her.

They drank together for quite some time, enjoying silent conversation and short playful glances. Every now and then Jack would find himself watching her. He watched how the candle light highlighted her features so adroitly; some of short strands of her hair gently brushed against her cheeks. He watched how her fingers lightly grazed the rim of her glass as she let her mind wander, and how her lips tenderly indulged the sweet taste of wine.

"You know, your men care about you a whole lot more than my men care for me. Hell, they lead two bloody mutinies against me. Your men are undoubtedly loyal and they haven't even tried to kill you, er… successfully. I find that quite admirable," he stated, leaning in close enough to savor the rosy smell of her dark hair.

"I suppose so. I mean they have tried to kill me in training," she smiled. "We've all become dear friends"

"Ah … _friends," _Jack cringed. "Can't really afford to have many of those, but when you're a pirate, you're not really in the position to be making many _friends,"_ Jack stated, reminding himself of why he had come to her in the first place.

"Do you consider me a friend?" he asked suddenly.

She laughed. "Jack, I barely know you. You're just another face to me. I know why you have come, tis every man's desire to live forever and for what purpose? I do not know. I've been alive for almost eighteen hundred years and I do not see any glory in walking amongst the population as an old ghost."

"I do not seek glory, darling. I only wish to bask in it when it comes," Jack replied, and lifted his arms into the air, as if glory were to come down upon him at that very moment.

She laughed, shaking her head. "You will never understand. When the entire world is dying around you, you will still be there to suffer its repercussions. The people who you love and care for will perish before your very eyes as you continue to wander, knowing that you could never do a thing about it."

"I can live with that, darling, my one and only love is the sea."

Isabella was quite taken back from that statement; she gave him a curious look.

"Why are you training those men, Bella?" Jack inquired.

She glared at him. "That is none of your concern, Jack." He had called out her name, a name her deceased father and her brother once called her when she was a child. Her heart sank at the thought of Jack speaking to her as they once had.

"Easy, darling," he cooed. "I only asked because, it seems to me that you've been training these men for some sort of would be foolish for you to train them for no good reason now, wouldn't it?"

"I've been training my soldiers for over four hundred years! Their fathers, their father's fathers, and even their _grandfathers _had served under my command. It is in their blood to fight."

"You still have not answered the question at hand, and I'm willing to wait here all night for your answer," he stated, resting his head on the side of her bed, taking a swig from his bottle of wine as he shifted around to make himself more comfortable.

She lifted herself to her feet, walking toward the balcony's moonlight threshold as Jack's face was overcome with disappointment.

"I was moved here about four hundred years ago, after I escaped incarceration in Scotland. I had met a handful of men from that country who stayed at my side while I was in jail. I brought those men with me, in the hopes that one day I would wage my own war against those who have trespassed upon me. Hera had chosen me to destroy her own son, and I destroyed myself in the process. Now, I will go back and destroy her."

"You're going against the gods once more? You're bloody daft woman! I would have wagered that once was quite enough," Jack stated, rising from the floor.

"I've got nothing to lose. I'm taking my men to the fountain once your ship has been rebuilt, if they are worthy to become my immortal army then we will go to her."

Before Jack could protest on his and Barbossa's behalf, Isabella continued. "It seems though I'm in the market for a capable captain. Just for part of my journey, of course. And seeing as you currently are not in possession of a ship, I thought you would be much obliged to captain mine."

"So, you're saying at you will take my men and I to the fountain if I, in turn, agree to captain your ship?"

"I can take you to the fountain as many times as you wish, Jack. I could make you a colorful map depicting its precise location, but it is not up to me if you are worthy to drink from it. I was not blessed with such a power," she stated, walking toward him, drinking the last bit of wine from her glass.

"They will come to you Jack; you will know if it is your destiny, but I promise you nothing. Do we have an understanding?" she inquired.

"Aye, lass. I believe we do," he said, smiling wickedly.


	10. Trifling Needs

**Chapter 10 – Trifling Needs**

**---**

The assortment of trinkets in his hair echoed throughout the dark stone room as he paced back and forth. His mind racing wildly from Isabella's curious proposition, knowing that Barbossa and his men will not be pleased to know that there is no longer a guarantee for their immortality.

'_Perhaps it'd be best to not inform the dear ol' captain of our current situation…or Gibbs, he won't be too happy either,' _he thought.

He turned back to Isabella, who was gently blowing out the candles near her bed. "Love, do you think there could be any possibility of convincing our dear friend, Barbossa to captain _your _ship while I make my way on the _Black Pearl_?" he stiffened, looking quite pleased with his idea.

She raised a skeptical brow. "Why would I want to be doing that?"

"Well, seeing that the Black Pearl is, in fact, _my_ ship, it would seem that Captain Barbossa would be in bloke without a vessel and would be much obliged to captain yours, as it were."

"Jack," she interrupted, turning away from him to blow out the last of her candles. "I, personally, don't own the _Black Pearl_. Therefore, putting any effort in getting it back for you seems a bit superfluous to me. On the other hand, if _you_ could 'convince' Barbossa to let you captain the _Pearl_, then I wouldn't mind, you might not be the right man to captain my ship anyway."

He crumpled his features in disappointment, looking out toward the balcony, watching the moon sparkle in the dead of night.

"Touché, love," he cringed at the thought of him 'convincing' or let alone, doing anything, with Barbossa.

"We shall set sail with the morning tide, then?"

"What time would that be?"

"Dawn."

"Impossible. That's not happening."

"Why not?" Jack replied, clearly irritated.

"The ships are not ready yet. We shall have to wait until the preparations are complete."

'_There'll be no livin' with this woman_,' he thought, taking a deep breath as he composed himself.

"There is no time to lose under these circumstances," Jack urged, swaggering toward her. "And furthermore, you'll be sailing under my command, whether it be your ship or not, I am still captain. So, we'll be sailing under my terms, savvy?" he stated. "We'll speed up the preparations of the ships - work all night if we have to and weigh anchor at dawn."

She narrowed her eyes sternly, not many men questioned her authority, not even Lieutenant Moore on a bad day. Her men know their place and moreover, know consequences of contradicting her word. But Jack was not one of her men; he was free to do what he wished without penalty or knowledge of the consequences – a notion she had longed to experience, for centuries and it certainly didn't look like the good captain would be changing his way of doing things just for her. For a moment, she felt drawn into him; drawn by his free spirit, and wished to awaken the spirit within her that lay dormant for most of her tormented existence.

"Very well then, Captain, we shall set sail on your terms," she began, walking toward him.

"Now, that's what I like to hear, love. Where are you going?" She brushed past him in a hurry towards the balcony.

"You know there really is no point in sleeping, it's almost dawn anyway," she said, walking through the threshold, looking out over the edge as Jack followed behind curiously.

She lifted herself up onto the stone rail, allowing the wind take over her loose nightdress, letting it travel through her long, dark hair and glide over her pale skin. She held out her arms, embracing the moonlit sky.

"Jack, do you know _why_ I picked this room out of all the rooms in this godforsaken dungeon?"

Jack looked down over the railing; it was a straight drop down into the ocean.

"Lieutenant Moore thought it would be more _proper_ for me to be in the larger bed chamber in the tower. He should know out of anyone that I am in no way _proper_. But then I wouldn't be able to go swimming late at night when no one's watching," she said, smiling down at him.

"Ready to catch me, Jack?" she inquired, letting herself fall over the edge.

"You know, I still think you're bloody daft woman!" he screamed down at her while he climbed over the rail, watching her plummet and hit the water with an unforgivable force. She did not resurface.

Jack swayed back and forth on the balcony rail, arms in the air, trying to find his balance. He looked down at the spot she had landed in.

'You know, I'm quite daft meself, love,' he pondered aloud as he dropped his hat onto the balcony floor, diving down after his mad accomplice.

The sea greeted him with a cold and salty burst of ecstasy as his body sank deeply into the tumultuous waters. It was a long drop into the dark blue abyss; Jack felt a faint from the sudden, rigid impact, but was able to shake it off and adjust himself to the underwater atmosphere. He hadn't realized how close he had come to hitting several sharp rocks that shot up uncompromisingly beside him; no doubt she had come dangerously close as well.

'_Where's that bloody woman_?'

The moon aided in his search by illuminating his underwater surroundings with a bright, iridescent light. He swam around patches of rock and coral, encompassed by schools of small silver fish, including several Queen Angelfish. He let several large air bubbles escape his lips in the effort to sink lower and lower towards the rocky sea floor. He chased after one angelfish in particular, its yellow rimmed scales and deep blue lips on its yellowish face we're so very unique and almost mesmerizing. He lightly grazed its light blue fins as it swam beneath a pink coral formation.

After spending some time searching around the rocks and caverns in his hunt for Isabella, the pressure from the water slowly began to crash down upon him as he sank. His lungs could no longer handle staying beneath the water for much longer. He looked up towards the surface and pushed himself up from the sea floor with his feet, beginning to swim up towards the moonlight.

Jack gasped when his face finally reached the surface, feeling his lungs grow hungry for salty night air. He floated in the swaying water for a bit to regain his breath, looking around and above him towards the fort. He had not realized how far he had fallen from Isabella's balcony and from where he had surfaced it appeared to be a desolate hole on the side of an unyielding black cliff.

Jack's thoughts were interrupted by an unexpected wave of water crashing onto his back. He turned around to find the dark figure floating behind him.

"Haven't found me yet, Captain? I'm rather disappointed," she smiled and pushed his head underwater in jest.

Once Jack was several feet under, she quickly swam away to a large, slippery rock that protruded off the side of the cliff. She pulled herself up onto its wet surface, twisted her hair around her hands to free it from the weight of sea water. She watched Jack frantically rematerialize from beneath the surface, waving his arms and gasping for air.

"I thought that a man of the sea would know how to swim?" she teased.

"I'm getting far too old for this."

"_You're_ too old?" she laughed. "What about me? I should be a lovely pile of dirt by now."

"And a lovely pile of dirt you will become if you keep trying to murder me," he said, swimming to her side, pulling himself up onto the rock.

"I will rephrase that, then," he stated, clearing his throat. "Love, I haven't had enough rum for this," he pouted.

"Now, that's more like it!" she smiled, tucking away a few strands of wet hair behind her ear as she lay back upon the slippery surface, propping herself up on her elbows. "But, in my opinion, it's better to do things like this without the influence of liquor."

"And why's that?" Jack asked, cautiously. She sounded much like Elizabeth that the moment. How could he forget the fiery wench who burnt an entire underground stockpile of rum? He quickly shook off the dismal memory of her, setting his sights on Isabella, who was now on her knees, waving her arms up to her balcony.

"Well, the way I see it is if you jumped off a cliff from having a little too much rum then everyone will think of you as a drunken fool. On the other hand, if you jumped off a cliff, knowing full well that you were, indeed, jumping off of a cliff then you'd be remembered quite differently."

"Your logic astounds me, but it seems to me that with my reputation, I'd still be remembered as a drunken fool either way you slice it, love," he replied sarcastically.

"On the contrary," she retaliated, raising a finger at him, "you'd be remembered as the drunken fool who _remembers_ jumping off a cliff for some viable reason, then you'd have another story to tell."

"You know me to well, love," Jack stated, curling the ends of his mustache with his thumb and index finger.

"That's the second time you've said that to me tonight, Jack. I'm starting to believe it to be true."

A moment of silence had plagued their conversation once more. Isabella focused on the waves softly crashing against the dark cliff. She looked down at her toes and let her thoughts wander with the sounds of the surf. The water had calmed tremendously since she had initially dived in. It was a small warning from Poseidon, no doubt. It was his duty to ensure that she did not leave this land, which made it a tad bit difficult for her to swim, sail, or even fish if she wanted to.

'_Hera knows me too well and perhaps she knows I'd leave in a heartbeat just like I had done when they kept me in England._'

Escaping was not a problem, but being caught is another matter.

She recalled the time she had spent in solitary confinement while in Scotland, formerly known as the Kingdom of Picts, as punishment for escaping from England and more importantly, forming her first rebellion against Hera. She outwardly smiled at her insubordinate behavior.

Once she was released to a standard stone cell, she met Alastair Moore, her malnourished and timid cellmate. He was only a young lad of eighteen; thrown in prison for stealing food for his family.

---

'_What are you in for?' he muttered from his cot._

_She laughed, menacingly only answering him in her thoughts._

'_Where do I begin, lad? If he only knew of the things I have done…' she thought._

_---  
_

"You know, you're not as harsh as you try to make yourself look," Jack slurred, observing her closely, noticing that she had been smiling, but did not understand why.

"Is that so?" she asked, turning her smile to him, yet he did not answer. She bit her lip softly, savoring the taste of salt with her tongue. _'I have no choice. I must be harsh.'_

Jack looked out before him. _'You don't scare me at all, love. And I think you know that.' _

He could now see the horizon dotted with specks of early morning light. Their late night escapes had to come to an end; dawn was approaching fast and leaving its mark in the distant sky.

"Well, as much as I adore sitting on this godforsaken rock with you, I'd really rather be enjoying the morning on _my_ ship while sailing away to meet up with that," he confirmed, lifting himself up carefully as he pointed forward into the horizon line.

"Well there's no way of getting back up there, unless you know how to fly," she said, staring up at her distant balcony. "We could swim to the docks - they're just around these cliffs."

Jack looked at her skeptically, knowing that they would be confronted by several of her men, along with his crew. "How are we to explain this?"

"We'll just tell them the truth." She shrugged.

"Rum and cliffs never seemed to mix together so well, now did they?" he confirmed.

"They never really have."

* * *

Captain Barbossa, Lieutenant Moore and Colin Andrews we're up before dawn to finish the last minute preparations on both the _Hellride_ and the _Black Pearl_. Mr. Cotton spent most of the morning assisting Murtogg and Mullroy in securing the _Black Pearl's_ rigging. Meanwhile, Pintel and Ragetti were on deck in the act of storing the last bit of the food in the _Pearl's_ galley.

"Ya know what I found the other day?" Ragetti asked anxiously.

"It better be shiny or I don't want to be hearin' about it," retorted Pintel, as he lifted the last box of dry foods into the galley pantry.

"It's even better than shiny! I've found this salmagundi recipe that me mum gave to me before I went off piratin'," Ragetti began happily, lifting a large sack of potatoes over his shoulder. "I used to 'ave it all the time when I was a lad."

Pintel waved off Ragetti's sentimental nonsense, clearly not interested in his recipe. He quickly made his way up the galley's wooden steps, Ragetti closely followed behind, searching through his pockets as they appeared on deck.

"Well?"

"Well, what?" Pintel answered, clearly irritated.

"Well don't ya want ta know how it's made?" Ragetti asked eagerly while taking out a grimy piece of paper from his pocket. He rubbed his wooden eye and started reading out the ingredients to Pintel as they walked down the gangway onto the docks.

"We'll be needin' some onions and a bit of goat meat … but we'll be needin' to cut the meat into little cubes and such! To-ma-to sauce … We'll be needin' tomato sauce!"

"You know you can't read!" Pintel exclaimed.

Ragetti had not realized the fact that they were now in close proximity to the area where the Barbossa had been discussing the logistics of their journey with the Lieutenant and Colin. Pintel slapped Ragetti in sternum with the back of his hand, which startled Ragetti away from his recipe. Pintel passed by Captain Barbossa and waited intently for new orders.

"Cap'n, we've finished loadin' in the last bit of the supplies."

"A fine job ye both did, gents. Now we'll be needin' to split up the crews accordingly between both ships," Barbossa began, feeling a wet elbow plop down upon his shoulder. He turned his face to discover a sopping wet Jack Sparrow at his side.

"I'll be taking Master Gibbs, Pintel, Ragetti, Marty, Cotton and those two squabbling scallywags over there by the rigging," Jack announced firmly, as he wiped away several beads of salty water from his forehead before they met with his eyes.

Isabella was carefully hidden behind Jack, holding onto his wet shirt, avoiding the skeptical eyes of Lieutenant Moore at all costs. Barbossa spun around on his heel to meet Jack face to face.

As Barbossa stepped forward to meet more closely with Jack, he had noticed something peering over Jack's shoulder.

"What 'ave ya got there, Jack?" Barbossa inquired, sidestepping to the right to examine the contents behind Jack's back. Jack sidestepped to meet with him, smiling as the old rogue became frustrated with his insubordination. Barbossa tried once more to sidestep to the left, and Jack stepped to meet him once again. Barbossa and Jack danced around one another for a few moments as Pintel and Ragetti looked at each other, shrugging as they witnessed a similar scene to the day before, which ultimately ended with Jack landing, arse first, into the harbor.

Barbossa's temper began to rise, quickly took hold of Jack's shoulders and pushed him aside. What, or rather _who_ he found, surprised him.

"General?" Lieutenant Moore blurted out, looking over at Jack. Her thin nightgown was soaking wet.

Moore's blood began to boil within his veins as he raced over to Jack, lifting him into the air by his damp shirt. "What have you done to General Selene, you-"

"James!" Isabella exclaimed. "Put him down! That's an order!"

The infuriated Lieutenant glared at her, growling at Jack through his thickening red beard. He grudgingly let go of Jack's linen shirt, letting Jack plummet down onto the solid dock.

Isabella turned her attention towards Captain Barbossa, who was visibly amused at this unusual situation. She decided that the best thing to do in this awkward situation would be to change the subject.

"Captain Barbossa, did you receive my orders last night?"

"Aye, yer beautiful maid brought them to me early in the evening," he stated, sinfully smiling.

"Very well. So, you are well aware of my need for a captain?" she inquired.

"General, I thought that I was to captain the _Hellride_ on our journey?" asked Moore as he took several steps forward to meet with Isabella and Barbossa.

"I need you by my side, James. Being a captain is not your responsibility, we shall leave that to those who know what they're doing."

Moore grabbed Isabella by the arm, leading her several yards down the docks.

"Are you telling me, we are to let Sparrow captain our ship?" He looked over to Jack, who was now being helped up by Colin. Jack swayed, attempted to regain his composer once he was up on his feet.

"He's been here only a few days, we _barely_ know who he is, or where he comes from, or what he's here for … and furthermore, he's a pirate. He's clearly not here to help us."

"Captain Barbossa is a pirate as well, are we not to trust him?"

"No, we should not, yet we are leaving the lives of our men in his hands as well," he replied quickly.

"You're questioning my authority here, Lieutenant?"

"No, I'm questioning your poor judge of character. If you need me by your side, then I shall protect you from those that you can't even protect yourself from."

"What? Are you jealous?" she raised her brow, placing her hands on her hips as she shifted her weight from one leg to another.

Moore grunted. "I am _not_ jealous of that pirate!"

"James, as I've said - I need you by my side. My word is final. I cannot fight while you are at the helm. Remember, he will not be with us for long," she affirmed sternly, turning to begin her brisk walk toward the fort.

"Now round up the men, and the weapons, we are to leave immediately!" she shouted over her shoulder.

The fact that she needed him by her side soothed his rage. He watched her walk off the docks and out of sight before he turned and paced quickly in the other direction. Moore quickly met with the drenched Jack Sparrow, who was making his way after Isabella. He blocked Jack's passage with his large, muscular arm.

"Lieutenant Moore, I have a trifling need to retrieve my hat, so if you'll excuse me, I'll be much obliged..."

"_Captain_ Sparrow, I'm afraid you've worn out your welcome by me and if I see you within arms length of her again I'll …"

"Lieutenant Moore," Barbossa interjected grabbing the Lieutenant's arm. "I think there be more pressing matters to attend to."

Moore lowered his arm, cursing under his breath as he marched angrily passed Barbossa and Jack. He quickly began barking out orders on his way to the deck of the _Hellride_.

"Jack, I think ye might be treadin' on some dangerous waters," Barbossa said, peering over Jack's shoulder.

"I don't know if you've noticed, mate, but _we've_ _been_ treading on dangerous waters for quite some time now. We're practically wading in it," Jack retaliated, clearing his throat.

"Has she said anythin' about the fountain?"

Jack looked over his shoulder at the eager Barbossa, giving him a wicked smile. "I believe we've come to an understanding…"

* * *

Isabella quietly entered her bed chamber, shutting the heavy wooden doors as softly as she could with her palms as she walked cautiously over to her armoire to look for a dry bundle of clothing, leaving a small river of salt water behind her.

"Isabella?"

She leaped in her skin, jolting around to find her dear friend Arianna looking at her oddly.

"Arianna, you scared me half to death!"

"Where have you been? More importantly, why … are you wet?" she said, laughing.

"Oh, well, I went down to the docks this morning to aid in clogging a few leaks in the ship," she lied quickly.

Arianna raised both of her eyebrows in a look of surprise, "Oh really? Is that so…" she sauntered slowly over to the threshold of Isabella's balcony, picking up a leather tricorn hat. "You helped clog up a leak with Captain Sparrow?"

"You could say that…" Isabella shrugged her shoulders, innocently looking up at her wise friend. Arianna shifted her brown eyes between Isabella and Jack's hat as she twirled its rounded corners between her fingertips.

"Is that what they're calling it nowadays? Clogging up leaks, is it?"

"You dirty hag!" Isabella laughed as she threw one of her pillows at her.

Arianna tossed Jack's hat onto the edge of her bed. Isabella quickly picked it up and placed it on her head. She looked in the mirror from across the room.

"You know, I quite like this look. I might not even give it back," she said, strutting around playfully.

"I'm sure James isn't too pleased about the captain stealing away your affections."

"Jack is just a friend - a very handsome friend, but a friend nonetheless."

"Ah, what a lovely love triangle you've formed!"

"Oh please, I cannot be attached to either one of them seeing I have nothing to offer either of the two. James is one of my men; I can't be seen fraternizing with him and Jack … well Jack is just Jack, he will never love me like he loves the sea so, I ask nothing of him. You know, I'd rather just have you in my life. At least you can't break my heart."

"What would you do without me?" Arianna asked while taking out several dresses from Isabella's armoire.

"Not sure really, I know I'd be very lonely and I definitely wouldn't laugh as often," she offered, pulling down Jack's hat over her eyes and gave Arianna a small pout.

"So, take me with you."

"With me? On our journey? Absolutely not. I cannot put your life in danger. I wouldn't be able to forgive myself if something were to happen to you."

Arianna sighed. "What fun it would be, you and I, immortal best friends?" she pondered while inspecting Isabella's ivory hairbrush.

Isabella paused in the mirror, looking at her condition. She stood before herself in a soaking wet nightdress; her hair wild and wavy underneath Jack's tarnished pirate hat. She felt alive for once.

'_It would be quite remarkable to have some company…' _she thought. '_But, no, I cannot risk it. Not for Arianna's or Jack's sake.'_

"Come on, you saucy pirate wench," Arianna interjected, breaking their silence. "Lets get you bathed and in some dry clothes and you can tell me _all_ about your late night leak clogging adventures with your illustrious _friend _Captain Jack Sparrow!" she giggled.


	11. Her Weak Spot

**  
Chapter 11 – Her Weak Spot**

**---  
**

"She'll be taking us to where we want to be going and giving us whatever needs to be given, Hector," Jack stated triumphantly, pointing his nose in the air.

"And how were ya able to manage that, pray tell?" Barbossa began, slightly amazed that Jack was able to get through to Isabella, knowing full well that she would not be easily fooled by Jack's sly tactics.

"Let's just say, it's a matter of leverage…" Jack said, caressing the tips of his fingers along the _Pearl's_ black rail.

A shiver went up his arm. '_I'll have you back soon enough, darling,_' he thought, turning to face Barbossa as he smiled.

Barbossa raised his brow. "What could you possibly have over her, Jack? What information could you be possessing that could possibly let her give us what we be wantin' so easily?"

"I know what she wants no other man to know," he stated nonchalantly, finding himself walking into his former cabin, running his fingers through the spines of his book collection. He noticed that several of his books were vicariously thrown about, placed out of order in a careless fashion. He rolled his eyes at the scene and continued on.

"The scar on her chest – it's her weak spot," He said rather bluntly, whilst pulling out one of his numerous books, flipping through their numerous pages.

"I know, I know, '_sounds down right impossible_' is what you're thinking – incredibly improbable as it were, but have you listened to her story, mate?" he said, throwing the book over to his former desk and took out another one, holding his arms up in the air.

"She let Ares wound her when she felt helpless and vulnerable, leaving a nasty mark – a target so to speak," his eyes grew wide. "Would any man want a target on their chest, letting their adversary to know exactly where to strike?"

"An' if you're wrong, Jack?" Barbossa said peering over his shoulder. Jack threw the second book on his desk and picked up another. '_Kama Sutra… well you never know…'_ he thought sinfully, letting it drop onto his desk.

"I'm not wrong about this one, mate," he began, turning his attention back in Barbossa's direction. There was no reason for Jack to not be confident about this situation. "I came here for one purpose and I don't plan on leavin' until that purpose has been reached."

"Seems too easy, Jack. The circumstances of these kinds of situations always tend to be a little more complicated than ye think they may be. She vexes ye Jack, and ye know it. Quite frankly, I know ye can't resist a damsel in distress even when you're the one doing the betrayin'."

"This damsel is in much more distress than you and I can handle, but be that as it may," Jack began, pointing his fingers at the skeptical Barbossa. "Thanks to dear ol' Jack, we're making our way to the Fountain of Youth – with our lovely prize, might I add, to gain _our_ immortality," Jack boasted, flipping through the pages of yet another book.

"Jack, what are ye doin'?"

"I'm taking my books with me," Jack replied, raising his brow with a look of surprise.

"Since when did ye learn how to read?" Barbossa joked.

"Since the day you became a slimy git!"

* * *

"I think its time to get rid of this mop on my head … What do you think?" Isabella inquired, gliding her fingers through her thick, wet locks.

Arianna followed her to the mirror, eying Isabella through her reflection. The two women looked as though they were siblings. Both adorned with brown hair that reached their mid-back with matching brown eyes.

Arianna also possessed the same curvy body type as Isabella. Their athletic builds were not common and were certainly the markings of hard working women. They were certainly not as shapely as their darling friend, Grace - who possessed an impeccable hourglass form, equipped with a tiny waistline that was overshadowed by a pair of large breasts and an adequately sized bottom.

Most of time, Arianna and Isabella would kill to have her bust line, even for just a moment. But even with all their flaws, they were pleased with the extra curves they were graced with.

"A hair cut? Hopefully not as short as the last time! You don't need to be shaving your head any longer."

"I was thinking more along the lines of … right here!" Isabella took two fingers and placed them just below her shoulder. "It'll just be about an inch or two past my shoulder … just so I don't have to lug it around."

Arianna nodded in approval running her fingers throughout the long tresses that she was about to dispose of.

Isabella took out a small dagger from one of her drawers. "Will you be doing the honors, then?' she asked Arianna with a thoughtful, sisterly smile.

"On one condition," she gripped the dagger with her palm letting her fingers slide across the blunt side of the blade. "If you promise to do me the honors! I think I might want to cut my hair as well. Just a little shorter than yours I suppose … out with the old, in with the new as I always say!"

She had done it so many times on her own, slicing away at every strand, watching her femininity drop to the floor –her resemblance to her mother fade with every slice. She recalled the times she had let the cold edge of her blade glide across her scalp, slowly shaving away her existence as a woman. This would be the only time in her life where she no longer had to hide and only time where she did not have to shave her head to prove that she was a strong and valiant warrior. She was truly grateful to have that privilege.

Her thoughts quickly returned to the present as one of the morning rays of sunlight reflected off her mirror and into her eyes.

"Has my armor been transported to the ship?"

"I took care of it this morning … you won't be need anything else, then?"

"No, I'll just be using just my tunic. I don't think that there will be many festivities where I'm going."

"Done!" Arianna chimed happily as she ran her fingers through Isabella's hair, looking very satisfied with her work.

"Alright, your turn now," Isabella said, shaking her head to let her new short locks dance freely in the air. "We'll have to make it quick, I think I've made everyone late enough."

She ran her fingers through her hair in an effort to push the tresses away from her face, taking her spot behind Arianna.

"As long as you don't butcher 'em!" Arianna pleaded while locking her hands around her hand in protest.

"Oh please! I'm a master swordsman. There's no need to offend!"

Isabella took a large handful of Arianna's hair and began to slice it way, cutting it towards her long neckline, letting it bob up around the edges.

After a few moments of trimming and styling, Isabella softly threw the dagger down onto her table, raising her arms in success.

"Well? I think it's quite ravishing!"

Arianna smiled at the sight of her new short hair, she had never cut her hair so close to her face. She shook it around a bit, giving it some volume and let her fingers run through her short fringe.

"I think it's quite liberating!"

Isabella smiled and walked over to her armoire as her ecstatic counterpart continued to look in the mirror, patting her fringe down to her forehead.

She softly opened the light mahogany door and took out her tunic, unfastening her robe to slip on the white fabric, one arm at a time. Her fingers fidgeted the bottom hem, which rested right at the midway point of her thighs. She ran her palms down the thin, fair fabric to flatten the wrinkles that were made over time. It had been years since she had last worn the tunic in combat and it was certainly a surprise that the fabric remained intact over the passage of time.

She picked up Jack's beloved hat from her table and put it on; still adoring the look it gave her regardless of the length of her hair.

"Isabella?"

She quickly turned to face a teary eyed Arianna, whose humor drastically changed in the matter of seconds.

"Are you coming back?" she let out, clasping her hands close to her chest to hold back tears.

She inhaled, not sure of what to tell her dearest friend. She could not dampen her spirit, nor did she want to tell her that this could possibly be the last blissful moments they spend in each other's presence.

"I'll come back to you, in one way or another. I'll promise you that much," she nodded, rushing towards her friend – the closest thing she had to a sister and entwined herself in one final embrace, bidding her farewell.

* * *

Isabella emerged from within the fort, making her way through the crowd of soldiers waiting to board the _Hellride_. Due to its large capacity, she had decided on taking all of their soldiers aboard with them, sacrificing the number of men aboard that could actually crew their ship. She was confident in Jack's expertise and his ability to lead his crew in such situations. Either way, she had decided that it be the opportune moment to actually learn how to sail her own ship.

She walked swiftly up the gangway, making her way to Lieutenant Jordan who was busily assigning men to their quarter's bellow deck, while Lieutenant Moore made last minute preparations in the armory.

"Jordan, is everything ready to make way?" she said, rubbing her hands together.

"Yes, General. We're bringing aboard the men now along with a few volunteers from the colony who have decided to join in our journey," he pointed over to Colin Andrews, saying his last minute goodbyes to his lovely wife, Grace.

"Colin! Grace!" Isabella shouted, running toward them and before she knew it, she was locked in a very tight embrace with Colin's wife, Grace. She relinquished her grasp, turning her attention to Colin.

"Now, Mr. Andrews, why have you decided to change your mind after all these months of not wanting to join my army?"

"Well, if the stories about Jack Sparrow are true, then I wouldn't think of missing it. It'd be the adventure of a lifetime. I'd be honored to serve under you, if you'll have me," Colin said, giving her a small bow.

"I'd be a fool to not have you, Colin," She gave him a wide smile and placed a hand on his shoulder. "As for you Grace, will you be able to manage?"

"I'll be fine, Arianna will keep me company for now … just bring him back to me in one piece, promise?"

Isabella nodded her head, smiling. She decided to leave the two alone, making her way up to her cabin to check the conditions of her armor and helmet since the last training session.

She twisted open the brass handle of the dark mahogany door and entered her newly refurbished cabin. The room was very well lit, adorned with a fine mahogany desk, large windows with white lace curtains which delicately reflected the morning light, a large globe with gold trimmings, and a very long rectangular table with a cherry finish of distinctive quality, sitting on a ball and claw leg.

She noticed a small lace curtain that divided this room with her small bedroom as she walked over to her grand mahogany desk, running her fingertips along the smooth finish and sighed. She pondered about the many years of preparation for this voyage, now the day had finally arrived, and she did not know if she would finally be ready to face her demons.

"There you are, love!" A very excited voice chimed in from behind her, relieving her from her thoughts.

She quickly turned away from her desk to find Jack with his feet up on her table, along with one of her apples in his ring clad hands and a book in the other.

"Jack! Why it's absolutely delightful to see you starting your day off with something other than rum! What are you doing in my cabin?" she inquired, tossing his hair over to the table beside him.

"I'm waiting for _her majesty_ to arrive!" he exclaimed, placing his book down upon table. "And now that you're here we can _finally_ make way."

He took a large bite of his shiny green apple, adjusting the hat on his head. "And last time I checked, love, this would be the captain's cabin ... Therefore it is _my_ cabin."

"Is not!" she exclaimed, walking over in his direction.

"Is to!" he retorted, rising to face her as he continuing to chew on his apple.

"It's_ my_ ship!" Isabella declared, raising her arms up in disbelief.

"Still doesn't make you captain!" He retorted, smiling at her frustration.

She quickly turned away from Jack in frustration, folding her arms to her chest as gazed in the other direction like a spoil child. She has not been used to such impertinent behavior in all her life.

Jack smiled once more at his ability to irritate the woman, not only because he was one of the very few men who had the power to do so, but because he truly wanted her to fight back. If she truly longed for freedom in the eyes of the gods, she must no longer allow herself to be captured by anyone – not only himself. Although he did quite like the idea of capturing her, whether it be figuratively or physically … maybe even a combination of the two.

He gave a small smirk, letting his gaze wander down the silhouette of her lean back. Thanks to the rooms lighting, he could visibly see her womanly shape through her thin linen tunic. His eyes traveled down her wide hips and delved even further to explore her muscular legs. He soaked in her well-defined calves and her strong lean thighs.

'_No doubt, those thighs could crush a man's skull if he didn't play his cards right_.' His smirk grew as his eyes finally found their way to her rounded buttocks. Her tunic outlined its rounded shape very nicely, allowing him to admire its magnificence and could even make out the presence of a small brown mole on her left cheek.

He wanted to give her an indication that he was, in fact, admiring her curvy exterior, and giving thought to the many little things he could be doing at that moment to relax her and give her pleasure. The thought of slowly grazing his fingers up her thighs, lifting the tunic up high, and letting his lips travel down her lower abdomen made him bite his lip; she seemed warm and playful by nature so who knew how she would react to such forwardness. After some thought, he had realized that their argument about sleeping accommodations had not been settled yet, so he will leave the topic up to discussion for a later time.

She felt his eyes upon the length of her. _'Flattery will get you nowhere Mr. Sparrow…' _she thought, feeling fairly skeptical of his motives or intensions at that very point in time. She couldn't help but feel a sort of girlish bashfulness rise within her being; it painted her cheeks a rosy color each time Jack gazed in her direction.

She hadn't felt that way since she had given up on Alistair, but she could not condemn a man to a lifetime with her, knowing that they will one day perish before her eyes. She could not love and be loved in return. Jack wouldn't be any different, even though she would enjoy partaking in the pleasures of the flesh with him, considering the fact that he possessed very handsome flesh, indeed. Her eyes wandered down to the table adjacent to her hip. Jack's books lay neatly in a row on the table. '_How predictable,' _she thought, '_"Robinson Crusoe," "Book of One Thousand and One Nights," "La Divina Commedia," Kama Sutra,' _she rolled her eyes,_ '"Macbeth" by William Shakes …'_

She turned around quickly to face a very stunned Jack Sparrow, a smile danced across her face, "William Shakespeare! That drunken git got published?"

"Hold on a moment," Jack began, finishing his apple and throwing the pit over his shoulder. "You knew William Shakespeare?"

'Cap'n!' exclaimed Gibbs from the entryway.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, sir," noticing a somewhat annoyed look on Jack's face. "We'll be needin' you on deck."

He turned to her. "We'll definitely be needing to finish this conversation at a later time. Here you can have the rest," he stated hastily, leaving his apple core in Isabella's hands.

"Now I must be on my way, darling. The sea calls to me," he said, tipping his hat to her and made his leave with Mr. Gibbs following him close behind.

Isabella took a seat at table, passionately throwing the apple core at the door. She decided to pick up William Shakespeare's "Macbeth," turning to the first page. She propped her feet up on her table, twirling her hair between her fingers and began reading.

After a few moments of fumbling through countless pages, she closed it and set it down onto the table.

She sighed. "Bloody git can't even write to save his life." She picked up another book entitled "Kama Sutra" and relaxed back onto her chair.

"This is more like it!"

* * *

"Weigh anchor! Brace the fore yard, you scabrous dogs! Get ready to make way!"

"Cap'n, you know as well as I do that takin' a woman aboard is bad luck, Barbossa's sure not takin' the risk so why should we-" started the superstitious Joshamee Gibbs while running his fingers through his long, gray hair.

"Belay that, Mr. Gibbs," he said, holding his hand up to his first mate, letting other graze the pegs of his newly appointed helm. "This one will not succeed in killing me. I'm fairly certain of that."

"_Fairly_ bein' the key word, Cap'n," Mr. Gibbs mumbled skeptically.

"Mr. Gibbs."

"Aye, sir?"

"What good is it to find a treasure chest, without having the key to open it?"

"Well, its good in a way since you could always shoot it open," Gibbs retorted.

Jack rolled his eyes.

"Do we have a heading, Cap'n?" Gibbs inquired, moving on to more important matters.

He looked down at his compass, watching the needle point downward towards his cabin. He narrowed his eyes.

"Oh bugger," he muttered, shaking it frantically as he opened it once more, watching as the needle spun madly around for several moments, finally settling on the north-east.

'Mr. Gibbs! We have our heading!' he exclaimed, relieved.


	12. The Legacy of a Sparrow

**Chapter 12 – The Legacy of a Sparrow**

**---  
**

A thick cloud of gray fog engulfed the_ Hellride_ and the _Pearl_ moments after they pulled away from the small Floridian port. Light rain gently crashed down upon her dark mahogany decks as Jack Sparrow stood confidently at the helm, steadfast, expecting the worst but hoping for the best.

He narrowed his eyes, seeking passages through the endless cloud before him; small wisps of the fog danced around his body and entwined themselves in his hair. The farther Jack ventured out into open waters, the higher the risk of danger became for him and his crew.

"Cap'n, we 'ave an unfavorable wind!" Gibbs yells to Jack, finding his way up to the quarter deck, slightly stumbling at the last step.

"Mr. Gibbs, brace the yards, we're passing through danger waters," he ordered gravely, letting the wheel shift slightly to port as his kohl dripped down from his eyes from the mist. "Secure as many men as you can find."

"Aye, Cap'n," Gibbs paused, rubbing his hand together, warming them from the cold rain. "This is the work of that woman. Ever since we left port we've had this wretched cloud followin' us. Bad luck to have a woman aboard, Cap'n - especially one who's wanted by the gods."

Jack narrowed his eyes, looking for a way out, feeling more than just a bit uneasy about sailing blindly out to open sea.

"Might have been a bit simpler if I hadn't lost that map," Jack pondered out loud.

"The map will do you no good," intruded a voice, shadowed by pillows of fog.

Isabella emerged from smoke to face the two men. A small breeze grazed her face, letting her dark, shoulder length hair join in its passage. Small drops of rain tumbled down her forehead onto her cheeks and caused her face glisten.

She looked up toward the cloudy sky. "Calypso," she whispered, gripping her hands on the rail, still not used to the ship's constant sway. After a moment, she looked over to Jack and Gibbs. "She's been released?"

"Aye," Jack stated, turning his attention back to the fog ahead. "You know of her?"

Isabella let out a small grin as she walked toward the helm. "She will not harm me. She has allowed us safe passage. If anything, she will keep Poseidon at bay until we reach our destination. The wind will lead us."

Extending her hand, she caresses one of the many puffs of fog before her. "Thank you," She whispered gratefully, being greeted by another cold gust of wind.

Her other hand held an aged cylindrical object, appearing to be a scroll of some sort, soft and moldy within her palm. Unrolling it, she let her eyes scan the dials, adjusting them to their proper location, holding it up in front of Jack's face.

"The 'X' goes where I go. No mortals know of the fountain position, but they know where I am. And where I go, it will follow."

"You thievin' charlatan!" Jack exclaimed, snatching the map from her hands as he watched the black 'X' slowly move along the edges of Florida.

"I am not! You should have kept better care of it!"

"Well at least we know where we're going now! Bloody fog isn't helping as much as we'd like to think."

"So it seems," she whispered, looking over to a nervous Joshamee Gibbs, trying with all his might to avoid her gaze by averting his eyes to the floor, fidgeting his fingers. She peered over at Jack, who was fixated on the map.

"I have matters to attend to below deck," she said hesitantly, feeling unwanted. She turned, returning in the direction that she once came, making her way down to see her men.

* * *

As the day ensued, Isabella found herself all over the ship, tending to her small army below decks, partaking in early morning training, checking the conditions of her armor, and strategizing with her lieutenants and Colin Andrews – who most certainly proved to be an excellent tactical aid in their journey. He had learned various forms of material arts since childhood, which enabled him to teach new techniques that would enhance her army in battle.

Later in the day, she found herself wobbling around deck, continuing to find her sea legs, when she stumbled into Pintel and Ragetti sitting back to back, arms folded, noses pointed up into the air.

She raised her brow, placing her hands on her hips.

'_Very curious, indeed…What's eating away at those two?_'

She stumbled over to the two silent men, sitting herself down between them, finding much relief in no longer needing to stand.

She stared them intently, realizing that they were probably trying to ignore the her. Isabella had dealt with many men and their various masculine affairs, so-to-speak, for her entire existence. Therefore, bluntness was very much her forte.

"All right, out with it," she insisted.

Pintel and Ragetti both turned to face her, watching as she shifted her eyes between them. They slowly turned back to their original position, huffing at her intrusion.

She smacked both men on their backs. "Well? Out with it now, I haven't got all day!"

Ragetti cleared his throat. "He's always impugnin' me honor," he spat, fixing the collar of his green jacket. "He doesn't even listen to me anymore, and it makes me feel like a neglected, ol', ruddy housewife!"

"That's because yeh act like an ol', ruddy housewife!"

She noticed Pintel beginning to rise from his seat beside her, arms held out, reaching for Ragetti's throat.

She quickly held out her arms to separate the two men. "Hold on to that thought, Mr. Pintel. How did this come to be?" Pintel sat back down with a gloomy expression on his face.

Ragetti reached into his pocket and pulled out a small piece of parchment. "He wouldn't listen to my recipe…"

Isabella was quite amused, how this whole debacle could be caused by a small piece of paper. She softly grabbed the harmless piece of parchment from his hand and scanned it quickly.

"This sounds pretty delicious, actually," Isabella said, rubbing her stomach, looking over at Pintel, who was still sulking.

"What do say you to this," she pointed her fingers at them both men turning to face her as she stood. "We take this recipe down to the galley and you both make it, together. With my help, of course, but ye have to do it, together or else I'm not helping. I'm not going to do all the bloody work myself. Otherwise, I'll lock the both of you down there till you reconcile your own differences…"

"No, no! That won't be necessary," Pintel exclaimed.

Ragetti rubbed his hands together, adjusting his eye as he smiled merrily.

"All right, then! Off you go!" she shooed them both down the galley stairs.

* * *

Jack Sparrow's nose tweaked from a surprisingly non-foul odor aboard the ship.

"Mr. Cotton!" he called out aimlessly amidst the cloud of fog. He heard scurrying up the steps to the quarterdeck, Mr. Cotton finally emerged from the fog, parrot on his left shoulder.

"Mr. Cotton and parrot, could you kindly take the wheel for a few moment, there's some sort of disturbance on this vessel and it smells enchanting."

Jack swaggered his way down to the main deck, only to find a line of men awaiting entrance into the ships galley.

"Excuse me, lads! Coming through! Step lively now, gents!" Jack dodged his way in and out of the line.

"Bloody fog!" he yelled, waving his arms to clear a path around him. He was able to push through the line until he reached the very front.

"Oi! We were here first!" yelled Murtogg.

"Yeah, you've got to wait in line just like everyone else!" Mullroy chimed in.

Jack looked back to the two men. "Captain!" he stated, pointing at himself.

"Cap'n!" Gibbs shouted merrily as he walked over to the swaying captain. Isabella, Pintel and Ragetti were working side-by-side cutting vegetables and stirring the giant vat of salmagundi.

"We've been waitin' fer ya, Jack," he said, handing him an empty bowl.

He proceeded to walk over to the large vat that was currently being stirred by Isabella, holding up his bowl to her as he looked up to her with his wide, chocolate eyes. She gave him a small smirk of satisfaction as she filled up his bowl with the delectable, thick, red substance.

"Thanks very much, love."

"Don't thank me, these two were behind it all," she said, nodding over at Pintel and Ragetti, who were both chopping an enormous batch of onions with teary eyed smiles.

Jack nodded back gratefully. '_Hmph,_ _they finally did something right. Didn't think they had it in them. _'

"Oh wait! Let me taste to see if its right!" she said rather hastily, handing her his bowl. She continued to stir the vat as she sipped from the very edge of the rim, savored the tender vegetables and meat.

"Suit your fancy?"

She looked at him keenly. "I think it does," she said smiling, quickly turning to Pintel and Ragetti. "Go easy on the onions there! What have they ever done to you?"

Jack snickered, watching as she served each man a bowl of Pintel and Ragetti's fine meal. To Isabella's men, it was certainly a first seeing her in the kitchen, elbows deep in chopped vegetables and raw meat.

"I thought you didn't know how to cook?" inquired Lieutenant Moore, chomping away at his succulent goat meat, sucking some fragments from between his teeth.

"Well, obviously, I don't. But, I'm an excellent stirrer."

Once the line had finally come to an end, they were able to pour themselves a bowl of their creation to enjoy out on deck. Jack managed to salvage a large bowl for the faithful Mr. Cotton, who was manning the helm during his absence. He was very much obliged to see that the captain had thought of him, and gave Jack a small nod of thanks and grand smile.

The parrot squawked wildly at Jack. "You thought I'd forget about you, you mangy bird?" he said, holding out several walnuts in his hand. Cotton's parrot quickly tries to seize the nut from Jack's hand, but Jack pulls it away.

"Only if you shut it! Even for just a moment," he urged, listening as the parrot continued to squawk even louder than before.

"Fine! Here, have it!" He relinquished the nut to the very happy parrot. Although, Jack's deed had been small token of his appreciation, it still depicted one of the many reasons why his crew held a great respect for him. He had always been a kind and honorable captain by them.

On deck, Pintel, Ragetti and Isabella rejoiced, sitting on several kegs of power as they finished their meal.

"Aye, me sister sure knew what she was doin' when she made up this recipe!" Pintel confirmed, licking the remnants of his bowl.

"Mum sure did have a way with the kitchen!" Nodded Ragetti, finishing his last cube of goat meat. "Ol' Darla sure made a good stew though," he chuckled.

"She was one of the finest goats on the seven seas!" Isabella stated, holding up a bottle of rum.

"A toast, to dear Ol' Darla, gents," she toasted. All three lifted their drinks in honor of the old goat.

Ragetti began reciting a tale to Isabella of how he came about his green jacket. "Stole it from some fru-fru French nobleman, right off his back!" he exclaimed, rather pleased with himself.

"His wig is probably still spinnin' to this day!" stated Pintel, letting out a hearty laugh.

The cold zephyr of evening had approached much sooner than they had anticipated; the lamps around the deck were being lit simultaneously by the crew, and the amber glow of candlelight glimmering through the surrounding fog. Jack could see a faint indication that the lamps of the _Pearl _being lit as well. They followed very close behind, to Jack's relief.

Most of the men had returned below decks to seek their bunks for a good nights rest. Jack had decided to remain on forecastle deck with Isabella, listening to the waves gently crash against the ship's mighty hull.

At first, they talked about small things such as parts of the ship. Isabella was eager to learn how to sail once she had managed to figure out how to walk without having to hold on to the rails for dear life. She wondered if one day she could man the helm just as confidently as Jack, sailing off into the horizon.

"Rather fine thing you did by those two mongrels," Jack finally said, interrupting her thoughts.

"Nay, it's alright, they told me they'd teach me how to play the fiddle tomorrow," she chuckled. "I doubt I'll be any good at it really, but I can give it a shot," she said, grabbing onto the rail before her rather tightly as the ship swayed from the passing of a large wave.

"Haven't found your sea legs yet, have you, darling?"

"I will eventually!"

"You sure you can manage all by your lonesome out here this evening?" Jack said, running his fingers along the rail, sounding rather disappointed.

"I'm sure I'll be fine, I should be on the look out either way."

She stole a quick glance at his profile, letting her eyes linger for a moment.

He turned to her. "All right, but if you change your mind, my doors always open."

"You mean_ my _door, Jack?"

"It may be your door, but I'm still the one behind it."

* * *

The night grew cold and unforgiving. Isabella's soft skin turned to goose flesh, shivering as countless rain drops relentlessly sprinkled down upon her. She had tried to sleep as best she could within the large coil of rope but to no avail; she was no longer used to sleeping in harsh conditions.

A wave smashed forcefully into the starboard side of the _Hellride_, sending splashes of water on deck, soaking her skin, tunic and the rope she rested on. She turned onto her back, facing the sky, some of the fog and storm clouds had shifted, revealing small touches of iridescent specks of light on a dark blue canvas. She let the droplets of rain run down the length of her as she ran her fingers through her damp hair, another gust of wind came over her. She shivered once more and her teeth began to clatter.

She hoisted herself up from the center of the coil, and swayed a bit once she reached her feet. '_Who knew it'd take this long to get used to walking around on a ship?_' she thought to herself. '_Maybe this is why Jack walks funny…he's obviously gotten more then used to it._' She raised an eyebrow, keeping her balance.

She looked over to Jack's cabin; a single light from a candle could be made visible from behind the curtain, most likely from her table. Jack must be reading, drinking, or a combination of both come to think of it.

A great wind bore down upon her, sending her hair flying as she narrowed her eyes, quickly wrapping her arms around the mast for leverage until it subsided.

"I wouldn't be out here, lass!" A lone voice in the storm spoke out to her.

She looked up to search for its origin, masked in the presence of fog; a petite figure loomed above her.

"Mr. Marty!" she called out to him. "What are you doing up there?"

"Second dog watch," he said gruffly. "Yer daft for bein' out 'ere in this storm!"

A bright light overcame her eyes followed by a loud roar of thunder. The wind had not calmed, but the rain still remained light and gentle.

"Doesn't that make you equally as daft?"

"Suppose so! It's a risk I'm willin' to take."

"Will you be all right?" she yelled, cupping her hands around her mouth. He gave a small nod and grumbled. It has been many a year since Marty had first taken his spot on crows nest. Whether it was rain or shine, Marty had always completed his watch.

She looked back towards her cabin. The small, dim essence of the candle light looked warm and welcoming. She relinquished her grip on the mast and began to sway forward toward the familiar glow.

* * *

With a full belly, Jack returned to his cabin early in the evening to fulfill his duties as captain. He had met with Gibbs to finish the day's markings in the log book. Jack was not one for paper and pencil and found that Gibbs had more of an affinity towards it than he ever had. Once Gibbs left his quarters to take first watch, Jack removed his tricorne hat and coat as he began unrolling a rather large map he pilfered early that morning from the _Black Pearl_, smothering the cherry table with its enormity.

He lit a single candle, enough to bring life to the page before him. Small dotted lines ran through its entirety, names of countries, cities, islands, oceans and small coordinates were all marked down diligently. He even took the time to make small drawings of ships he sailed and the treasure he had found. On the back of the enormous map were small inscriptions, stories of his life, thing he had been through, witnessed, and learned. Jack Sparrow had kept many maps, but this one, was his pride and joy – his legacy.

He placed his compass on the table as he redrew several lines from Nassau port to southern Florida. He drew a cup right below an "X" and labeled it "_Aqua De_ _Vida."_

He gently opened his compass with his finger tips and let it spin on the table before him, Jack lingered as it slowly came to a stop. It pointed to the bottle of rum beside him, uncorking the bottle with his teeth, taking a long swig. A quick surge of light came in through the cabin windows followed by a piercing howl thunder, and the light sounds of rain. Jack's compass began to spin wildly once more and pointed towards the door.

He rose to his feet and then quickly sat down again. He tapped the needle slightly out of place, but it whipped back to the same exact spot.

'_She's perfectly fine. In fact, sleeping on deck builds character_!' he thought.

"Why just look at Gibbs!" he thought aloud. He looked down at his map yet again, drumming his fingers on the edge of the table as he decided to get up once more. She was a woman, whether she was immortal or not she must be cold and Jack could not fight the gentleman within him. Jack pushed through the thin white curtain of the bedchamber and pulled the thick, burgundy blanket off the bed, heading towards the door.

* * *

She had finally reached his cabin door, feeling as though she had been swaying for an eternity. She raised her palm, placing it on the door's frigid surface. She was overcome with pride, unsure whether she should just knock or manage her way below deck to seek refuge from her men.

The door jerked open, startling the pensive Isabella.

"Oh!" he muttered, looking down at the shivering woman.

Isabella looked down at his right arm, smiling when she discovered that he was cradling a large blanket.

"I was just about to…"

"Thank you, Jack."

What that, he quickly unfolded it and wrapped it around her tightly, pulling her closer to his body. He wiped away several stray drops of water falling from her damp hair, placing the fallen tresses behind her ear.

"Couldn't manage on your own, darling?" he said with a smirk, watching as her teeth continued to rattle.

She chose not to answer. Her presence was enough of an indication that she in fact couldn't manage on her own.

He ushered her into the cabin, closing the door behind them to keep the cold out. Her legs fell weak once more from the ships endless swaying, causing her to fall forward onto him, gripping his waist tightly while basking in the warmth of his chest and unvarying stability.

"Come, come, dearie," he said slowly moving her to the chair he was sitting in just a few moments prior. He handed her a large bottle of rum, pulling up another chair to face her.

"Still stumbling about aimlessly, I see," he joked, plopping himself down in front of her, resting his elbows on his knees.

She simply nodded, letting the fiery liquid pierce her throat and travel through her, warming her insides. Her cheeks grew rosy again and her body was slowly catching up. She gave Jack the remnants of the bottle and squeezed the remaining water out of her hair onto the floor.

"Now, although, I like the idea of a half dressed, dripping wet woman scampering about my cabin nor would it be the first time its ever happened … regrettably, I think it's time to get you some breeches," he said, taking a quick swig from his bottle, setting on the table.

"I don't want the crew, including myself to become distracted by all that," he slurred.

She pulled her legs into her chest, smiling at his warm face; his features were gently caressed by candlelight. The amber glow made his eyes shimmer even more than the trinkets in his hair. She looked over to the large piece of parchment adjacent to her; it was a map of some sort with a very large inscription at the top, '_The Legacy of a Sparrow.'_

"Jack, this is remarkable. You've been to all these places?"

She noticed small dotted lines going from one continent to another, city to city, sea to sea. She observed one line in particular, going from the Spain to Italy.

"Every one, love."

"Parli Italiano?"

Jack smiled and leaned in closer. "Sì, bellissima. Parlo molte lingue."

His Italian was somewhat garbled, not sure if it was because of the rum or from lack of practice.

"Ah! Ora capisco perché hai "La Divina Commedia" in italiano," she confirmed. (_Now, I understand why you have "The Divine Comedy" in Italian)._

He smiled, running his hand over the map. "Questo programma è la mia eredità, la mia vita ad una pagina di pergamena," he states triumphantly, waving his arms over the map, showing her the finer details that only he would notice. (_This map is my legacy, my life on a page of parchment)_.

"Desidero a fare un programma per la mia vita pure…" she sighed at the idea of it. (_I wish I could have made a map for my life as well_).

"Vorrei conoscere di più la tua eredità…" he replied slyly, giving her a small smirk. (_I'd like to know more about your legacy_).

She looked at him, knowing full well what he meant, and started laughing. She clapped her hands together.

"Jack, you're very clever. But you're going to have to try harder than that," she lifted herself up from the chair, re-wrapping the blanket around her, attempting to find her balance.

He rose as well, holding his fingers up to her lips. "No, love, I really mean it. You're the guardian of one of the most sacred secrets of mankind."

"I am neither guardian nor god," she whispers, letting her hot breath warm his fingers. "I am a soldier of chaos, seeking my revenge."

"Now if you'll excuse me," she said, bowing out rather gracefully, walking passed the curtain separating the two rooms, plopping herself face down onto the soft mattress.

"You know, love," Jack began, following her behind the thin lace curtain into the bedchamber. "You never finished tell me about William Shakespeare."

"I met him once." Her words muffled by her pillow.

"Yes, I've got that much, but under friendly circumstances I presume?" he inquired, slithering on top of the bare mattress beside her, resting his head in his hand.

"Hardly, English men are too pompous for my liking," she started. "I was seeking refuge in a bar with several men from Scotland years after my prison break, ended up staying there longer than expected."

"He came in, one night, acted like he owned the place, of course, because you know, he was to be a grand poet, he boasted. Unfortunately, he noticed me sitting at the bar and obviously thought I would grovel at his feet. Not my style as you might have been able to deduce."

Isabella turned her head to the side to face Jack, nuzzling her body beneath the warm blanket.

"I will always remember William Shakespeare as a pompous, absinthe drinking git. But, then again, that was _before_ he became some brilliant poet. Don't know how he managed to tell you the truth … can't read more than a page of his writing in one sitting," she stated, stretching her legs out a bit as she rubbed her eyes.

"But, why are you asking me? Moore always says that I'm a poor judge of character," she debated, yawning as she slowly drifted into sleep, lifting the blanket up over her neck and closed her eyes.

"No, you're not," he whispered, thinking of the fifty brave souls below deck. He pushed back a few strands of damp hair from her face, letting his fingertips linger along her cheek and jaw line. He watched her chest rise and fall softly has she embraced every quiet breath of serenity.

After a few moments, Jack lifted himself up from the small mattress, walking back out into the candlelit room. He sat down, at the table and flipped his great map over, searching for a blank spot on the page and wrote:

'_I've finally encountered a woman with just as many stories and ventures as I. She is determined and powerful, yet shy and lonely at heart. There is more wisdom in her body than in the deepest philosophy. She is a soldier of chaos and I will betray her_.'


	13. Times Change

**Chapter 13 – Times Change**

**---**

**Kingdom of Picts, 1248 A.D.,**

**---**

_Bitterly cold currents freely carried themselves in and out through the steel bars of their stone prison cell, causing her to tremor viciously in her sleep. The cold months of winter were much too cruel, especially to those who intended on spending their lives in this penitentiary. She watched as her breath became visible before her, and rubbed her exposed limps vicariously, trying to generate some indication of warmth, but to no avail. _

_Her mouth grew dry and distasteful, she spent the days in silence, thinking to herself, laughing at times, but she did not know why. Most of the men assumed that she was madman and tended to stay as far from her as they could. She spent many a night awake; for it was never silent – any noise that was made disturbed her. Men of all shapes and sizes slept in close proximity, emanating heavy-hearted snores and murmurs in their slumber._

_The moments passed as she listened to her cellmate breathe ever so softly – letting out the occasional light snore. He had been the only man who showed her any consideration. A man of intelligence rather than brawn; he often spoke to her about simple things such as the weather, his family, how he loathed the snowy months of winter. He went on about the beautiful women he had met in his life, how he remembered their distinct features and how he wished he could taste the sweet nectar of freedom again. _

'_Freedom,' she thought; the word and its meaning had become such a rarity in this world of captivity. She never spoke back; she did not utter a word to him, and dared not to utter a word to anyone else. She only stared, intently listening to his tales; she gave him blank looks when she drifted into her own world at times. He meant well, she knew deep down that his sincerity was heartfelt, and yet she could not waste her time on such pleasantries. _

_The shimmering rays moonlight poured onto her face, highlighting her now thin features. It had been several months now since she had first been thrown into confinement, she counted the days in the corner on her wall, but quickly lost count. Her existence knew nothing of the word "time." _

_Each night she would lie silent, waiting for her frail cellmate to lay dormant so she could take care of her evening duties. When he finally lets out a small snore, she knew it was time. _

_She carefully rose from her bunk, making sure not to create any disturbances that could be considered out of the ordinary. Her feet lay bare to the frozen dirt floor; her toes gradually turning numb from the constant frigidness of her surroundings. She ran both of her hands through the stubble she called "hair" and sighed. She grew used to the fact that she looked like a man, acted like a man, and slept amongst men centuries ago, but at the same time, she grew detached inside, and each day she grew to be someone whom she did not know. She could no longer distinguish herself, and neither could the men around her. They paid her no mind, for she was not the definition of traditional beauty, so they assumed her to be one of them. _

_She bit her lip softly as she lifted her white tunic with her right arm and she grazed her fingers along her goose flesh with her left. She grew lean within past several months from a mixture of malnutrition and field work. She ran her fingers over her now visible ribs until they arrived at the large white sash that flattened her medium sized breasts. _

_She untied the sash, leaving her breasts vulnerable to the cold breeze. Her brown nipples hardened almost immediately, and the small hairs on her belly and back stood erect. She lifted her breasts delicately, attempting to relieve herself of the stinging pain from the sores that were beginning to form at their curvature. She sighed with relief. _

'_You're a woman?' he whispered, astounded at the fact that the person he had been trying to help all these months was actually female. _

_Her insides grew cold, she did not move. How could she be so careless?_

_He stood from his bunk, puzzled, gawking at his cellmate, boldly taking a few steps forward - a little too boldly perhaps. _

_She turned to him, with purpose and fire in her eyes and wrapped her callused hands around his small delicate neck, pushing him against the frigged cell wall. _

'_I will kill you-' she whispered through her teeth, her jaw tightly clenched. Her heart raced as she felt the gravity of the situation crash down upon her. Her mouth grew wet with saliva; these were the first words she had spoken in months._

_Her harsh fingers were slowly crushing his airway; he panicked – heart racing, feeling his life slip away, her grip gradually tightened, torturing him. Frantic, he turned to his only way out. _

'_Wait! I can help you,' he choked. 'I can get you out of here!' he yelled once more, letting out an urgent gasp for air, trying hard to not wake the others. _

_She stood there for a moment, felling his pulse race within the palm of her hand. She looked into his eyes. He was young, maybe even too young, with long red hair falling to his shoulders. His skin was as fair as a bright summer morning, yet covered in distasteful grime. He did not possess an once of strength in him to defend his own honor. She felt him swallow hard. _

'_You have to trust me, I can get you out … I swear by it!' he mustered, holding a weak hand to her arm._

_She pitied his weakness – she reluctantly softened her grip on his airway, letting him tumble to the dirt floor. _

'_Explain,' she whispered coldly. _

_With his arm on the wall for leverage – he hoisted himself up from the dirt; the cold sweat of fear bore down his face. _

'_A group of men … from a few cells down…' he swallowed, continuing on. 'They've dug a tunnel to the outside wall … they've promised me safe passage if I could make it to their cell tomorrow night.' _

'_Lies!' She yelled, savagely moving toward him._

'_No! No!' He held up his arms to her._

'_Why would the place such importance on a man like you? Why would they take such a risk?'_

'_My uncle … he's my uncle.' _

'_What is your name again, Alan … Andrew …Artimus?'_

'_Alastair …' he breathed, 'Alastair Moore. You've never told me your name since you've come'_

'_I do not exist. I am a mere ghost of my former self.' _

'_You did not answer my question.' He stood his ground. _

_She took another step closer to him, and smashed her fist against the wall several inches from his face._

'_Cleopatra,' she growled, disgusted by the sound of her own identity. Small fragments of rock tumbled to the ground as she relinquished her fist. She gritted her teeth._

'_Are you hurt?' he inquired after a few moments. _

_She smiled while lifting her bloody, broken hand to his face. He gasped, aghast at the scene in front of him. He watched the rivers of blood that ran down her knuckles quickly return to its origin, completely rejuvenating her skin and bones. She let out a manic laugh._

_He grabbed her arm forcefully – it surprised her, she did not expect this from the likes of him, _

'_Let me help you,' he urged as he tightened his grip. He meant it with every fiber of his being. He could feel her pain; her aura trembled in anguish, although she choose not to show it, he tightens his grip once more and looks deeply into her brown eyes. Her gaze sent chills down his spine - her soul is utterly tormented and he sought to release her from the pain. _

_

* * *

  
_

Dawn had finally unleashed its glistening early morning light, sprinkling it delicately upon the surface of the sea. Jack had risen before first light, quite astounded that the fog had lifted, but even more astounded at the calmness of the ocean beneath his feet. He stood at the helm, arching his back to elevate its discomfort from a harsh nights sleep. Seeing that Isabella had ransacked his bed for the evening, he had grudgingly fallen asleep on the table; his legacy becoming his temporary pillow.

He looked over his shoulder at the _Black Pearl_; her shadowy exterior thrived as it reflected the bright sunlight from her hull. He ran his fingers along the slick edges of the wheel, imagining the rough, familiar sway of the _Pearl_. He sighed, lifting himself up on his toes – swaying back and forth, running his tongue over his gold teeth. Jack looked down at his feet, admiring the mahogany quarterdeck below him, tapping his foot lightly; he noticed small scuff marks, and dirt. He heard the faint sounds of footsteps below and noticed that Mr. Gibbs had finally made his way up on deck, rubbing his eyes to clear away his early morning drowsiness. A smirk graced the side of his lip.

"Mr. Gibbs!" he called out.

"Aye Cap'n!" he answered, running up the stairs to Jack's side. "The fog must 'ave lifted overnight. By the looks of it, it'll be a fine day on the open sea," he added as he rubbed his coarse hands together and rested them on his hips.

"Aye, it is," he smiled. "Or it will be for the most of us."

Gibbs gave Jack a bewildered look. "Cap'n?"

"I'm having a thought here, Josh." He began, placing a finger on his chapped lips. "Seeing that we're undeniably short in the ways of blundering deckhands, I think it's about time to put our dainty – er, vicious, little flower to work."

He barged into the sunlit cabin, breeches in one hand and a bucket of ice cold seawater in the other. His steps were purposely loud. He brushed aside the thin lace curtain to find Isabella right where he had left her the previous evening – curled up underneath the large blue blanket, sleeping ever so peacefully.

He placed the bucket on the floor beside the bed and bent over Isabella.

"Oi!" he said, nudging her shoulder a bit.

"Alastair," she called out gingerly, nuzzling herself within the warmness of her woolen nest.

Jack raised an eyebrow, twitching his nose. "Oi!" He yelled a bit louder in her ear.

His yelled startled her, causing her to jump from her comfortable position and backhanded Jack's right cheek.

"Bloody hell!" he yelped, holding the side of his face.

"Jack! You scared the hell out of me! What are you doing sneaking around here like that?" she said, crouching on the small bed, still in the position to attack.

"You, _missy_, knocked the bejesus out of me! I think I have it worse!" Jack wiggled his jaw, trying to align it back to its proper spot. "And I was not sneaking around, this is my cabin, I can do as I please."

She keeled down to the comfort of her blanket. "Let me have a look at it, Jack." She motioned for him to come closer.

His cheek had turned a light shade of pink, although not visible through his scraggly beard. She brushed some of the rough bristles aside with her thumb.

"You'll live," she said, smiling.

"Mhm," he hummed, giving her a sultry gaze and a sly smirk. "No, no, no – that's not where it hurts … just a bit lower," he lied, moving her fingers down his neck, enjoying the warmth radiating from her hands.

"_Jack Sparrow!_"

Her hand met with his face one more, this time it was on purpose.

He shook it off, raising his hands to her. "Love, it's _Captain_ Jack Sparrow, _Captain_," He emphasized.

She raised an eyebrow. "All right, _Captain _Jack Sparrow, what is it that you want from me?"

He threw the old brown breeches at her face and picked up the bucket to properly hand it to her. "It is time to earn your keep on this ship, darling."

"What am I supposed to do with this?" she questioned, looking down at the bucket in her hands.

"I want my decks spotless and glistening in the sun by the end of the day. _Glistening_," he emphasized.

"Jack! You were supposed to teach me–"

"Let me make one thing inescapably clear," he began. "A man does not start out at the top only to find himself unfamiliar of what it's like on the bottom. It is only when you've lived and breathed the air of that foundation that you come realize what it's like for those beneath you. With that behind said, you should really be thanking me," he smiled, raising his hands.

"And what exactly does this position entail?"

"You're a deck hand, love. You'll figure it out."

* * *

The two men stood side-by-side, watching as their revered general took to her hands and knees to scrub away the remnants of filth from the deck. Her sleeves were rolled up above her elbows, pants dampened by cold seawater, she was barefoot for leverage on the slippery deck; her hair was askew from the light sea breeze.

"Think this is the Captain's doing?" Jordan inquired.

James Moore took a bite of his apple. "Can't seem to find any other explanation," he muffled.

"Don't know how he managed, really."

"Hey! What are you two gawking at?" She rose to her feet. "Below decks, now! Or I'll give you something to look at!"

The two men quickly retreated to the stairway. "It's definitely the Captain's doing," Moore confirmed.

Isabella swabbed several beads of sweat from her brow as she looked down, admiring her fine work. Even though most of the decks have already been stepped on and dirtied once more, it was still in better condition.

"Looks like ya need a break, aye?"

She half turned to find Mr. Pintel and Ragetti standing behind her, fiddle in hand.

She threw the sullen rag in the small wooden bucket. "I think I'll take you up on that offer," she smiled, turning to join them down below decks.

They found several barrels and each took a seat on one as Ragetti handed her the fiddle, showing her how to grip it under her jaw.

"Alrigh', you gotta put your fingers 'ere…" Ragetti urged, handing her the small bow.

"Wait," she held up her hands giving the bow to Pintel and the fiddle to Ragetti. "We're missing something…" She rose from her barrel, searching through the boxes in the dark corner of the room. "Ah ha!" she chimed happily, holding up three bottles of rum.

"That's gotta be the Captain's doin'," whispered Pintel to Ragetti, who was nodding in approval.

Isabella stood, leaning over the smooth rail of the forecastle deck, watching the sun return to its resting place for the evening. She watched as warm oranges and pinks intertwine with the cool purple and blue hues causing a tapestry of patterns in the sky. The forecastle was her favorite spot on the entire ship, venturing to it each evening, watching the sunset at her favorite time of day. She loved nothing more than to feel the enticing wind flow freely through her hair and dance on her skin, wishing she could join its rhythmic flow. She softly ran her fingers along the natural grain of the wooden rail, feeling its curvatures prickle her fingerprints.

"Marvelous sunset isn't it?"

His strong footsteps startled her within, but she did let her gaze waver from the sight in front of her.

She nodded and smiled. "It's one of those sunsets that make you want to keep watching. I'd give anything to be as free as the wind right now, so I can follow it to where it lies."

Jack rocked back on his heels and leaned over the rail by her side; his arm lightly grazing hers.

"You know what they say, darling. 'Red sky at night is a sailor's delight'," his voice comforted her ears like sweet velvet as he looked down at his tar-stained fingers.

She looked over to him. "Why's that?"

"Good weather is coming, darling," he smiled. "Just something me ol' man used to tell me."

"Sounds like something Gibbs would say."

"Aye," Jack smiled wide. "Don't think there will be another one as beautiful as this."

She gave him a comforting smile. "_Nondum omnium dierum sol occidit - _The sun has not yet set forever. There will be another, don't worry."

He rested his elbows on the rail. "Well, that's a very optimistic saying."

"Optimism is all most people have left in this world, Jack."

Jack looked out before him, watching as the sun slowly sank beyond the horizon, leaving small indications of bright yellows behind in its path.

"How old were you when they called upon you?"

"Twenty-four," she answered, almost anticipating his question.

"So you were–"

"Twelve, when they sent me away."

"Who is Alastair?"

"Oh," She said quite astonished, not sure how Jack came to find that particular name on his tongue.

Jack looked at her, giving her a soothing smile.

"He was my rock, he never failed me, a true companion, friend, lover," she blushed.

"Ah ha! So you _do_ have a soft spot, now we're getting somewhere, darling," Jack offered her a sip of rum and motioned his hands to urge her to go on.

She took a long swig from the bottle and looked down at her fingers, letting her thumb pick at her short nails.

"Alastair was my first love … as childish as that might sound. My love for him raged passionately through my heart and soul. It always has, even after all this time, I can never forget his face and voice.

"James is nothing like him … Well I mean he is in certain ways…" Her voice trailed. "Alastair gave me light in pure darkness and hope when I thought all was lost."

"James? You mean your honorable Lieutenant is your–"

"Grandson? No, no! You have it all wrong. Alastair and I could not remain together under these circumstances. I had to let him go; I couldn't watch him die even though that eventually ended up happening anyway."

"I let him go off to marry another beautiful woman, let her give birth to his child only to see her die soon after.

"He passed on when he was thirty-nine and gave me his son, Nathaniel. Thus, beginning my story."

Jack looked out before him, watching the sky twist dark shades of blue and purple into patterns around brilliant stars.

"Its funny how death seems to re-shuffle one's priorities, for it surely re-shuffled mine," He added, shifting his eyes. "But it's best not to continue wallowing in grief about our past. It's time and tide, love."

"_Tempora mutantur, et nos mutamur in illis_. Times change, and we change with them," she retorted. "Whether we choose to or not."


	14. A New Beginning

A/N: **Bold** and _Italicized_ text indicate Jack's conscience - same deal as "Place of Torment."

Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 14 – A New Beginning**

**---**

**Kingdom of Picts, 1249 A.D.,**

**---**

'_Do you think I'm hideous?' she asked, resting her head against wet, emerald moss of an old cherry tree. She felt its moist sprouts intertwine with the stubble of her hair, sending diminutive droplets of water down her lean neck. Long blades of supple grass encompassed her body, freely swaying in the light afternoon breeze, caressing her lean legs while covering the sides of her slim torso. She bit her lip firmly, anticipating his answer. _

_He gave her a curious look, or rather, it seemed curious in her eyes. He sat a little further than arms length of her, propped up on his elbows, basking in the last few minutes of sunlight before nightfall, clearly grateful to taste the sweet rays of freedom on his skin._

_It had been several days since the night of their grand escape; remnants from her underground getaway stained the palms of her hands and the scars on her knees. Grime filling the grooves of her shallow fingerprints and deep incisions causing her a great deal of discomfort as she inched her way down underground channel. She found herself following illicit strangers to a very promising freedom – a freedom that had eluded her for decades, without knowing of what might lie ahead. Watching Alastair crawl diligently at the forefront, emitting drive and passion in his eyes gave her undeniable hope, it was their time – no, it was her time – to finally gain what she desired most. _

_A group of six men had joined their infamous escape that night, each of them varied in height and appearance, but were equal in strength and agility. They ran through the darkness of night for what seemed like hours, refusing to stop, for any breath hesitation or doubt could be their last. Death could easily find its way to them, which brought chills down their spines – the thought of their premature demise caused vigorous palpitations in their chests that emanated through their visible rib cages, leaving their lungs breathless and their spirits disheartened. They dodged loose tree branches in thick forests, traveling in and out of stable ruins in small merchant towns; seeking refuge within one another and within those they could trust. _

_They ran diligently for several days, only stopping for several hours of sleep in ditches and high grass fields. The group was unable to find sanctuary for long, so they chose to continue on until they reached their final destination – the makeshift border between Scotland and the Kingdom of England. _

_Undeniable rifts between the Kingdom of England and Scotland ignited a never ending revolution during their years of confinement; territories were raided, villages set aflame, lives destroyed, generations of hard labor were lost in a matter of minutes. Soldiers of the English army slaughtered civilians ruthlessly, leaving a series of battalions scattered about the vast Scottish countryside – this left little room for eight escaped convicts to freely run about._

_With war and murder surrounding them, Alastair's uncle found himself to be a very crafty fellow, indeed. He led the small group down a hidden passageway he learned in his youth during his time as a merchant traveler. The shortcut would take them directly through a large meadow in northeastern English territory, which aided in cutting time for many merchants who traveled from the northern Scottish territories. _

_They pressed on, feeling out of touch with the movement of their own country, even though it had not been any longer than ten years of idle captivity. Out of all the men, she felt the most out of touch. It was no longer the world of luxury and material pleasantries that her mother had promised her. The walls of her Alexandrian palace were gone, never to be seen again. The smell of fresh clothing and rosy, warm morning baths she had looked forward to had eluded her nostrils. Her long, brown hair suffered from being sliced down to its roots; her pale, smooth hands are now plagued by calluses and filth; her wide, brown eyes tainted with blood and regret. The world unrelentingly moved around her, yet she was unaware of the direction it was moving in and whether or not it will allow her the time to catch up._

_The meadow truly proved to be a great safe heaven for the group. Tall blades of grass and shadowy trees hid their position, giving them the perfect opportunity to recollect themselves, and strategize the rest of their journey. _

'_Hideous?' he asked, letting out a small chuckle, the sun made his hair glisten, brown eyes scanning her features invitingly, and the edges of his skin soaked in the light of sunset. 'Why would you ask me that?'_

_She looked down, playing with her short hair, fidgeting her fingers while sucking on her tender pink lip. _

'_I don't know …' her voice trailed as she looked down at her feet, somewhat thrown off at her own question. _

_She looked troubled once again, which concerned him enough to come up into his knees, and make his way towards her through the long blades of grass. He plopped himself down by her side, rubbing his hands together, ridding fresh soil from the webbing between his fingers – finally placing them on his lap when he felt satisfied. _

'_Are you not worried about your family?' she asked suddenly, remembering why Alastair found himself as her cellmate in the first place. _

'_I am,' he began, pulling pieces of grass from the ground, tossing them out in before him. 'But, I cannot do anything for them now.' _

'_Do you think they're all right?' _

'_There's always a place in my heart that gives me hope for them, even when times are dark,' he smiled, running his fingers through the light hair on his chin. 'I think they're still out there, my mum is not one to give up so easily. To tell you the truth; she'd probably be on the front line gutting those blimey Englishman herself.' _

_They both laughed, she thought of what her own mother's reaction would have been. She probably would have fled or had father fight for her. It wasn't ladylike to fight, but then again, it wasn't ladylike to do anything other than sit quietly and sip spiced tea all day. _

'_She sounds like a strong woman, full of conviction,' she reassured him with a smile. 'Do you have any siblings?'_

'_It would be faster for me to count how many I don't have,' he chucked, 'I'm the eldest of nine – four sisters and five brothers including yours truly,' he said, placing a hand on his chest._

_She raised her eyebrows in surprise. 'I only had one brother; he was a good man,' She confirmed, nodding her head. _

_He nodded his head in return, understanding the underlying circumstances of her situation. The night he watched her hand completely rejuvenate before his eyes enabled him to piece together complicated puzzle his cellmate had masterfully created. It explains why she had not aged at all in the ten years he bunked with her, why she never seemed to get hurt – even after stabbing herself with the pitch axe during field work, how her wrists were never affected by the their tight shackles, and how she had never died from starvation or rotten food. _

_The sun hid itself behind thick trees, beginning to settle for the evening. The sunset unleashed glowing white specks into a blank canvas high above them. It was the essence of a sparkling masterpiece. _

_Their faces were overcome with shadows, their distinct features faded into darkness, dark silhouettes and ruffling of grass were the only indications of life. It was a night of the new moon, a night of new beginning, a night where the Sun, the Moon and the Earth join together as one – making the Moon invisible to the naked eye. _

_The shadowy, peaceful surroundings of the meadow still did not put her soul at ease. She felt observed by something not of this world; a heavy weight bore down on her shoulders, almost to the point of claustrophobia. She was on the loose again; all eyes were on her once more. _

_Her eyes had finally adjusted to their dark surroundings. She lifted herself up carefully, grasping loose edges of bark for leverage. 'I think its better that you all move on without me,' she started moving forward into the darkness before her._

_Alastair raised himself up hastily to follow her, finding her arm within the shadows and grabbed a hold of it. 'What do you mean? We can't just leave you here! You have no idea where you're going.'_

'_But … don't you want to go back to find your family?' _

'_Aye, I do!' he whispered, trying not to sound harsh. 'But, we can't just aimlessly walk back into battle unarmed, without a single plan of action. You of all people should know that.' _

_She knew it, but she had never engaged in battle needing to worry about someone else's well being other than her own. _

'_I cannot put you in any more danger than we're already in. Besides, you know your uncle and those other men will never look at me the same if they find out that I'm a woman.'_

'_And I cannot let you go,' he pulled her towards him, causing her to protest against his grasp. It was a reaction he did not expect, causing him to tighten his grip even further to handle her. 'It's been ten years; they cannot change their opinion of you in a matter of seconds!_

'_Yes they can! And they will, you just wait and see! They'll send me away …'_

'_They can't just send you away; the English soldiers will try to kill you!'_

'_I can't die!' she yelled._

'_Even if you can't die … they can torture to you near death for years, decades, or even centuries! As long as it would take till the deed is done, then you'll wish you were dead!' he paused. 'And I would not be able to live with myself if that were to happen.' _

_Her body trembled nervously from his words; she bit her lip, not knowing what to do next or what to say. She was no longer protesting his grasp, which caught his attention. He lessened his grip on her arm and hooked a finger under her chin, lifting her face up towards him. _

_He gave her a warm smile that was masked by darkness, yet she still felt his affection._

'_And to answer your question …' he started softly, pulling her close. 'You're not hideous.' _

_He kissed her softly, savoring her warm, damp lips as he caresses her lean neck with his fingertips. His touch sent small electric currents down her spine, making her toes tingle with delight. He enticed her with his tongue, feeling her hands begin to explore the curvatures of his back and waist. Her body grew weak in his arms, causing him to break away with a small chuckle. _

'_So, does this mean you'll stay with me?' he whispered into her mouth, taking her lips once more._

_She nodded her head slowly, deepening her kiss and tightening her grasp on his sides. She lost herself in the dark, fiery passion of the new moon. _

_

* * *

  
_

'_Times change_.' he thought, running his long, tar-stained fingers through his beard. '_And we change with them. Whether we want to or not._' Her words ran through his mind like wheels in a clock, sharp teeth meticulously penetrating his thoughts to no end.

He peered down at the map laid out before him, watching the black 'X' slowly inch itself across its water stained surface.

He took a swig of rum and slouched back into his chair, grimacing at his lack of control on this voyage. He let his thoughts wander to Isabella.

'_Betray her, Jack. Live forever,'_ Jack was startled by the small voice in his ear; it was a voice that sounded very much like his own, the very same voice he heard not too long ago within the brig of _The Flying Dutchman_.

'_**The deepest circle of Hell is reserved for betrayers and mutineers. You said it yourself, mate,'**_ retorted another small voice in his right ear. Jack shifted his gaze in both directions but found no one beside him.

'_Think about it Jackie. The Immortal Captain Jack Sparrow… it's got a lovely ring to it, now doesn't it?'_ Jack nodded his head in approval; a sly smile emerged on his face.

'_**You'll be alone Jack, the last of your kind, forever.'**_

His smile vanished.

'_Betray her, Jack.'_

'_**She trusts you, Jack.'**_

'_Live forever.'_

'_**Alone, forever.'**_

"Forever…" He said aloud, letting his voice trail.

"Takin' time alone with yer thoughts, Jack?"

His head shot up, shaking off the remnants of his subconscious debate, half turning to observe a dark figure leaning up against the threshold of his cabin door, arms folded, sly smirk painted on his lips.

"Hector! How the bloody hell did you get aboard?" he stood, slightly swaying.

"Ye should be more attentive, Jack," Barbossa emerged from the shadowy threshold, making his way over to the large mahogany table.

"And you should not pop up when you're not invited, mate! I see you've come without the ball-and-chain." he joked, referring to Barbossa's pestering monkey.

He laughed for a moment, causing Jack to accompany him in awkward laughter.

His smile dropped. "It's been five days, Jack," Jack's smile dropped as well. "Ye clearly don't know where we be goin' and we're startin' to get a bit impatient…" Barbossa insinuated, shifting his glare to the map sprawled out on the table before him, realizing it as the map they had lost during the last storm.

"The map! The same map that ye accused me of stealin', and now it's 'ere in yer possession … ye must have had it all along," he took a fierce step forward. "You're plannin' somethin' aren't ya, Jack?"

"Absolutely not!" Jack stated hastily, slightly alarmed. "The map seemed to have fallen into the hands of our lovely tart and it appears that 'X' doesn't _always _mark the spot after all."

He looked skeptically at Jack, squinting one eye.

"Here, look for yourself," Jack slid the map down towards Barbossa. He watched it carefully, noticing how the 'X' was no longer present on the southern tip of La Florida but rather, in the middle of the sea below it. His eyes focused, becoming mesmerized by the 'X' as it gradually shifted towards the southeast.

Barbossa sat down carefully and looked up at Jack, "'Ow long have ye known of this?"

"Since the night we left port."

"And when were ye plannin' on tellin' me that we're sailin' blind?"

"Now, you see Hector, this is a delicate situation, and delicate situations need to be handled more delicately, savvy?"

"Aye …"

"What are the conditions of my _Pearl?_"

"As I've said b'fore, _my_ _Pearl_ is doin' just fine. What does that have anythin' to do with–"

"It has everything to do with it, Hector. Everything."

* * *

Hammocks were hung over and around ammunition, spare sails, and rum barrels. Gibbs was on first watch this evening, followed by Pintel, Marty, and Jack. Most of Jack's crew on the _Pearl _noticed how Jack often assigned himself the morning watch, and nearly everyone thought it was because Jack wanted the crew well rested for the following day. Very few knew how much Jack truly loved to watch the sun rise over the horizon.

Isabella sat between her two Lieutenants, delightfully chomping away at a fresh apple, watching Pintel and Ragetti string up their hammocks for the evening.

"Oi! Stop pullin' so hard!" Pintel argued, fumbling the stings of his hammock.

"Well you were pullin' too hard first! 'Ow do you expect me to get this 'round here without pullin'?" Ragetti retorted, pulling the string even further, trying to tie them around the pole.

"Hey!" Isabella chimed in, words muffled from chewing. "Why don't you get those two other fellows to help you out?"

She swallowed. "You know those other two … come to think of it, whatever happened to them?"

Pintel looked down at his fingers. "They're around just …"

"They think yer gonna kill them!" Ragetti interrupted.

"Kill them?" Isabella said, chuckling. She shifted her gaze between her two Lieutenants, raising her brow. "Why would I want to kill them? We were all chums not too long ago."

"That was b'fore they realized who you were," Pintel answered, a grave look overcame his face.

"Now, they jus' get all er … scared, when yer around."

"Shut yer trap!" Pintel whispered through his teeth, stubbing Ragetti's toe.

"Ow!" Ragetti yelped, bouncing around on one foot.

"All right, all right!" Isabella announced, placing a hand on the bouncing Ragetti's shoulder. "If we're all going to live together on this ship, we might as well get along. Am I right?"

Both of the pirates nodded there heads, Pintel gave out a small smile, Ragetti copied him soon after.

"So, where are they now?" she inquired.

"Out on deck," Master Gibbs chimed in, making his way up the stairs to commence his watch. "Aye, Those lads are spooked by ya, lass. I suggest ye take it easy on 'em, they're lousy crew, but still crew nonetheless." He nodded his head, gracefully bowing out of the conversation, he continued up the stairs.

She made her way passed Pintel and Ragetti to the stairs, running up two steps at a time to catch up with Gibbs. She was finally able to catch up with him, placing a hand on his shoulder, bringing him to a halt. "Thank you," She smiled warmly, catching her breath. "You know it's not my intention to scare any of you," she started. "After all, it is I who is in need of you."

Gibbs nodded. "Aye, seems reasonable enough."

He quickly made his way up the stairs to the quarterdeck but before he disappeared, he held out his arm in the direction of the forecastle.

'_Aye,' _she thought, giving him a small gesture of thanks.

* * *

"You suppose we'll find this 'Fountain of Youth' they've all been talking about?" Murtogg inquired, as he stared listlessly up at the ceiling.

"I suppose … I think its just plain rubbish, if you ask me – just another wise tale. I can't believe we've let Jack Sparrow, of all people, shanghai us into joining his crew," Mullroy retorted.

"Well if it's just another wise tale, then why would Captain Jack be so eager to keep the girl with us and not with Captain Barbossa?"

"I'm sure Captain Barbossa wouldn't want to get gutted in his sleep!" Mullroy snapped back.

"All this talk about killing makes me queasy, gents." Their conversation was interrupted by a smooth feminine voice.

Both men shot up to their feet, to meet with her gaze, they swallowed hard, anticipating the worst.

"Lighten up, lads," she began, holding up a large bottle of brandy she had taken from the galley just moments prior. "I thought you both might appreciate something other than rum …"

The two men were hesitant at first, almost holding their breath. Murtogg was the first to speak. "This isn't a trap, is it?"

"Aye, I've come to poison you and chuck you overboard once I'm done dicing up your flesh and feasting on your bloody insides," she replied sarcastically.

She sighed, realizing their hesitation. "I've only here to offer peace and good company," she held up the bottle, giving them a look that urged them to give in.

Murtogg looked cautiously at Mullroy, waiting for some sort of unspoken signal, he finally nodded his head.

Murtogg turned to her. "All right, fine."

A grand smile grew on her face as she handed the bottle over to Murtogg, taking both men by the arm, leading them out on deck.

"I hear you lot were under the employment of the East India Trading Company?" she inquired, starting light conversion with the two anxious men.

"Served under Lord Cutlet Beckett, until good business inevitably turned into bad business," Murtogg looked gravely at Mullroy as he rested his arms onto the _Hellride_'s smooth rail. "We stowed away on the _Pearl _before Davy Jones could get a hold of us. The _Pearl_ saved our necks!"

"Well at least we won't be needing to worry about that ol' catfish, Davy Jones, ever again," Mullroy stated knowingly. "Now that Will Turner's in charge."

"Will Turner?" She inquired, causing the two men to pause.

"The whelp," a languid voice stated behind them.

Their voices grew silent as they watched the two captains emerge from Jack's cabin. She studied Jack closely, noticing how his sway captivated her, along with the way his arms gracefully moved about him, his enticing smile and deep eyes seemed to go on for centuries. Her gaze shifted to the dark figure beside him, adorned in pitch black attire, cutlass, and pistols; topped of with a large black hat and scraggly beard.

"Captain Barbossa!" she called out happily. "Fancy seeing you here!"

Barbossa gave a small bow, taking Isabella's hand, planting a small kiss on it.

"Now, what have I told you about formalities, Captain?" She smiled.

"Aye me lady, I'm well aware o' yer policy." He stating, coming up from his bow. He studying her appearance, setting his eyes on her ill fitting breeches. "I hear they've put ye to work?"

"It's the least I can do for the crew."

"She did a magnificent job on the decks, didn't she?" Jack interrupted, looking over at Murtogg and Mullroy.

"Aye, Captain!" Mullroy stated rather hastily.

"Aye!" Murtogg followed quickly, looking down at the shadowy deck below his feet.

"Captain Barbossa must really be heading back to my, er … _his _ship." Jack stated grudgingly, hurrying Barbossa over to his dinghy.

Isabella gave a small bow to Barbossa before he disappeared down the starboard side of the _Hellride_. "Until next time, Captain."

"Aye, lass, we'll be needin' to catch up, so to speak," he grinned, entering his longboat with ease.

Jack stood beside Isabella for a few moments, arms behind his back, licking his teeth gingerly.

She sighed. "Shall we discuss my sleeping accommodations for this evening?" she inquired, folding her arms.

"We can discuss it in detail in my cabin, darling," he replied, smiling.

"I just want my blanket."

"Your blanket?"

"Yes _my_ blanket, Captain."

"I'll be wanting my brandy back, pet," he retorted.

She grabbed the remnants of the bottle from Murtogg and waved in front of Jack, sidestepping towards him, so close that she was able to feel his warmth.

"If you deliver me my blanket, I'll make sure that you'll have all your brandy back," she whispered softly and brushed passed him to return below deck to her men.

"I bid you all goodnight," she stated, bowing before disappearing down the steps.


	15. More than Meets the Eye

**A/N**: Sorry for the delay on this chapter! School and work are trying to suck the life out of me!

I just wanted to thank Nytd for her meticulous work on this chapter! She is amazing (in general and with the big red pen!). :)

Enjoy, dearies!

* * *

**Chapter 15 – More than Meets the Eye**

She rubbed her throbbing back, unable to believe that she had found herself in such a situation.

"I don't think you should try it again…" Moore cautioned, lifting his feet up on a pair of old soggy, crates while leaning back to casually rest his head on his arms. He raised his brow at her, taking the time to look into her eyes; he gave her a stern yet comical gaze that clearly implied, '_you should know better._'

"Why, I reckon she should give it another go, what's it been … five times?" Ragetti pointed out.

"Yeh can't possibly hurt your arse mo' than yeh already 'ave!" Confirmed the giggling Pintel, who found her situation to be quite amusing. Indeed, he snorted with delight.

Isabella pulled at the strings of her hammock, manipulating their loose edges between her long fingers. She studied the hammock's intricate string work, she pouted as she turned her attention to the small group of men who still were awake to help her get into it in the first place. If it weren't for them, she'd probably be sleeping on a very unpalatable floor, alongside a wide array of crawling stowaways from the sea.

Pintel lifted his brow to her, simultaneously lifting his chin along with it, urging her to try once more.

"All right," she sighed, extending the hammock with her hands, allowing her enough space to sit comfortably, "get ready for another laugh, gents."

She stumbled a bit, cautiously trying to lift her leg into the hammock for leverage, yet getting a contradictory result from her efforts. Whether it was the _Hellride_'s constant sway or her sheer lack of balance, Isabella found herself tumbling out of her hammock once more.

Its frail ends twisted vigorously, causing it to wrap around her body for a slight moment, then abruptly releasing her from the large opening that she had inadvertently created as she fanned out her arms, attempting to stop the spinning. She anticipated the pain of the hard wooden floor as she came crashing down, yet she never met it. Instead, she landed onto a softer and more inviting place, the arms of her valiant lieutenant, James Moore.

"You're hopeless, I hope you know that." he teased, lifting her up with undeniable ease.

"I almost had it!" she retorted, trying to not seem so helpless in the eyes of those around her.

"Right – just like you "had it" the other five times?" He smirked, narrowing his brow; his furrow developed distinctly in between his fair, auburn eyebrows.

"Well, Mr. I Sleep on Soggy Crates! Why don't you give it a try?" she retorted slyly, hitting him in the chest, causing him to relinquish his hold on her.

He gulped, clearly hesitant at his General's challenge.

"That's what I thought!" she stated, folding her arms. 'Now will one of you be a gentleman and _kindly _lift me into this bloody thing?'

A wide range of hands shot up in the air.

"Men…" She sighed.

* * *

She lay awake for most of the night, finally beginning to settle into her hammock, but still not used to the unstable sack – preferring a solid bed more than anything. She brought her hands behind her head, interlocking her hands as one, tangling the tresses of her greasy hair between the webbing of her long fingers. She leisurely crossed her right leg over her left, flinching at the sudden bursts of movement from the dangling net-like cage.

She shut her eyes for a few moments, inhaling warm air that clouded the berth deck; her ears bore witness to heavy-hearted snores from yet another group of men – reinforcing distant and painful memories, taunting them to haunt her thoughts once more. She inhaled profoundly, letting her rib cage rise to its fullest capacity but didn't proceed to exhale. She held it in, feeling heavy weight grow within her – a weight she could not reach out far enough to lift away. Rather she lay helpless, turning her head every few moments to scan the dimly lit room; letting her thoughts wander to the men she'd spent over an eternity to raise. She was a mother to each and every one of them, figuratively speaking. The pain and suffering of her own demise no longer fazed her, but the thought of losing one of them by her own doing, knotted her insides to the brink of agony.

'_If you could see them now, Alastair … you'd be so proud,' _she thought, finally releasing the air from her yearning lungs, eagerly taking in another.

'_You would have been right proud of your son, Nathaniel, his son Jarvis, and Jarvis' son Marcus …' _she continued. She spoke to him softly within her thoughts, as she had done every evening after secretly enjoying each others flesh and physicality. In her mind it was as if he were still present before her, shielding himself from her gaze like a lover in disguise.

She turned her attention to her slumbering lieutenant, James Moore – the valiant descendent of the man she had once loved. She watched him sleep for a moment, eyeing his atypical slouching posture. She watched as his rising rib cage invited the warm evening air into his lungs, letting our small snorts as he shifted himself periodically on the uncomfortable pile of old crates.

'_James ...' _she began,_ 'he's just like you, you know? As much as I tell him he's not … he really is a spitting imagine of you … he's got your eyes.' _She smiled, thinking of the man who had held her in his arms that very evening. '_You'd be right proud._'

Her smile subsided. She sighed softly, realizing that she had spent the last four hundred years surrounded by the offspring of men who had saved her from an eternity of confinement. To her left lay Lieutenant Jordan, descendant of Alastair's uncle, Baxter. He slept amongst his four brothers – Brodie, Jerome, Camron, and Murphy – all dedicated and skilled sword fighters.

To her right slept the five lone descendents of Ramsy Sinclair, the man who bunked with Baxter and assisted in creating the underground passageway. She thought of the oath she swore to those six men that faithful night, amongst the dark, long-stemmed grasses of the calm English meadow – an oath that Alastair believed would save her from the scrupulous eyes of the notorious convicts. He was right, like he always was. She swore an oath of honor; an oath she passionately held onto it ever since, never faltering. She was a woman of her word and the Gods could not take that away from her, no matter how hard they tried to subdue her fury.

'_Was it right for me to condemn these men to a lifetime of conflict for my own cause?'_

She looked around the room again; dim candlelight caressed the features of the slumbering men beside her as the darkness of night devoured their distinctness. She felt a heavy weight becoming present on her heart; she never thought this day would finally come, and now she must face the fact that she must fight her demons.

'_I don't believe so anymore …'_ she confirmed. Yet she had no other alternative.

'_I feel like I've held onto you for an eternity,' _she sighed.

'_Would you have let me go by now?_' She inquired, hoping to hear the slightest inclination of what path she should take.

She received no response.

'_Or do I have to let go?_' She opened her eyes slowly, narrowing her brow as she ran her fingers through her hair. She let her thoughts wander to Jack for a moment; his swagger and sway, sense of adventure, curiosity, and most of all his freedom. He ignited an unrelenting flame within her soul, one that had not been lit for centuries and it felt good.

'_You've cursed me, Alastair,' _she concluded, '_You've cursed my heart and I was a fool to let you do so._' She smirked, marveling at how one soul had completely taken her for so many years.

'_Will you let someone else have a chance?_' She bit her lip, '_Would you think of me any different?_'

'_Let me go_ …' she pleaded, closing her eyes once more. "Let me go," she whispered aloud before falling into a very shallow daze.

* * *

The soles of his boots traveled down the ship's rickety stairs carefully, as to not awaken the rest of the crew. As he entered the threshold below decks he held a large pierced tin lantern over his head, its amber lighting flooded through its front glass pane onto his features, highlighting his high cheekbones and deepening the intensity of his kohl lined eyes. His ring clad hand glimmered in the presence of the lantern's fiery glow, relinquishing diminutive bursts of light. His hands alone created life within the barren surroundings below deck.

He scanned the room earnestly, trying to peer over what seemed like countless bodies to find whom he was really searching for.

He cleared his throat, loud enough to startle the lightest of sleepers.

Her eyes shot open, just as he anticipated.

"Bella?" Jack whispered, with all the subtleness he could possibly possess, continuing down the few remaining steps, inadvertently stumbling over several of his crewman as he made his way over to her.

"Jack?" she whispered, curling her lip in sheer astonishment. "What are you doing–"

He held a finger to his lips, raising his brow at her, a sly smirk rose from the corner of his mouth. He patted his hand on a draped piece of fabric over his shoulder, "Thought I'd forget didn't you?" he inquired, rather triumphantly.

She smiled, crossing her arms over her chest, "It's about time."

He raised another hand, urging her to follow him up the stairs from which he came.

"I can't…" She looked down at the ground. "I'm stuck …"

He didn't understand.

"You don't know how long it took me to get in this thing!" She whispered hoarsely.

"Shush!" he urged, rolling his eyes. He let his lips part just slightly, causing small flickers of light to reflect off his gold teeth.

"Don't look at me like that," she argued, grabbing onto the pole from which the hammock was hung. She lifted her body up as best she could, being sure not to cause a series of unwanted commotions.

She peered under her bed to retrieve the bottle of brandy she had taken earlier in the evening, but as she reached down into darkness, she found nothing.

She looked around the room, somewhat confused, "Where the blazes … Oh!" Her search had come to an end at the slightly portly fellow who held the bottle close to his chest.

'_Seems as though Mr. Mullroy enjoys a good brandy!_' She thought, amused by the sight of Mr. Mullroy cradling the bottle of brandy like a newborn child.

She crept up beside him, squatting at his side, and began her work to free the bottle out of his grasp. She grabbed it by the top as she curled her tongue to the outside of her lip. She slowly began tilting it back and forth, smiling as it moved up his chest. He snorted, fidgeting a bit from the motion but then quickly fell back to sleep.

"Phew!" she whispered, continuing her work until the bottle found its way out of Mullroy's clutches.

She lifted herself up from her squat, and tried to make her way up the stairs as quickly as she could.

She was greeted by the cool evening breeze as she stepped through the threshold onto the deck.

She took a few steps forward into the darkness, noticing that Jack had taken the time to blow out all the lamps on the ship.

"There you are!" She was greeted by a very impatient Captain.

"I've got to show you something! Time is of the essence, darling. So, if you'd kindly move your arse, I'd be much obliged," he stated, blowing out his lantern while making his way up to the quarterdeck in perpetual darkness.

She followed him up the stairs eagerly with both of her calloused hands gripping the rail; unsure of what Jack would want to show her at this time of night. She turned her head profusely, trying to decipher any inclination of something that could be chasing after them, yet she saw nothing. The only signs of life were heard in gusts of wind being trapped within their white sails, and the creak of the dark, shadowy _Pearl_ eerily creeping up behind them ever so slowly.

His shadowy presence stood beside the helm; he held his hands behind his back as he tilted his head back to look up at the sky, his gaze unwavering as she cautiously approached him. She reached out to the wheel, gripping the pegs lightly as she stood to face him.

"What's going on?" she inquired, softly.

He grabbed her shoulders and gently turned her around, facing her back to his chest. He let his hand graze her neck as he hooked his fingers beneath her chin, raising her face up to the sky.

A celestial event was taking place before their eyes, small fragments of light radiated from one point in the dark abyss. These small fragments of cosmic debris punctured the sky before them at what seemed like an extremely high speed, only to vaporize soon after, leaving streaks of light that quickly disappeared after only a few moments.

"What is it?" She asked in a voice that was lower than a whisper as she tilted her head back a bit to address him. Yet she did not let her eyes waver from the sight.

"Not really sure. This is the first time I've seen it meself."

She smiled, marveling at the unobtainable forces of light above her, a warm feeling grew within her; it was truly miraculous to gaze upon something so unexplainable.

"I've seen something like it," he continued, "…years ago when I was a boy, but it was just one. It was rather breathtaking." He raised an arm to her shoulder and another to the sky. "In the eyes of any other man, it appeared to be unnatural and ghostly … but I could not help but be in awe at its beauty," he whispered in her ear.

He tilted his head down, finally, to look at his star gazing companion. He gently took her arms, grazing his fingers along the length of them until he reached her small wrists. He placed her hands on the smooth pegs of the wheel. He could feel her pulse quicken in his grasp yet he did not falter. She tilted her head down as well, and looked out before her toward the endless darkness that waited their arrival.

"Do you still wish to learn how to man the helm? Or would you rather–"

She titled her head up again, lightly resting her scalp on his chest. "They look like little tear drops, don't they, Jack?" She interrupted, truly fascinated by the sight. He grew a bit disappointed, it was not everyday that a Captain could bestow few bits and pieces of knowledge on one who truly wished to learn. But given the circumstances, tear drops and all, he decided to save his lesson for another day.

He stepped back, taking the small blanket off of his shoulder, placing it down along the cool deck, just a few feet behind the wheel. He plopped himself down upon it, crossing his legs while propping himself up on his elbows.

She half-turned, slowly to find Jack, lying back as _he _once had in her distant memories. She bit her lip, feeling small bursts of the evening breeze kiss the apples of her cheeks. She tightened her grasp on the pegs a bit further as uneasy thoughts entered her mind. Her hands grew damp as she began to feel out of breath, her heart beating rapidly; she was unnaturally nervous, yet she did not know why. He was no different than the others, so why would she feel so hesitant? Was _he _giving her some sort of clue or inclination of what to do next? Or something more than meets the eye?

"Have I left you speechless, darling?" He smiled, rising his brow. His smile could ignite thousands of unspoken words and insatiable whispers. It seemed as though silence was just enough of a conversation in the eyes of her dear Jack Sparrow.

"Speechless? Decidedly not – I can't seem to find enough words for you, Jack," she challenged, giggling. She left her inhibitions behind as she turned to him, taking a few steps in his direction to sit down by his side. She titled her head up once more to stare at the fiery sky.

"How long do you think it will last?"

"As long as it takes," he stated, uncorking the bottle of brandy with his teeth. He took a small swig, licking the remnants off of his lips. "I'm surprised …" he began.

"Surprised about what?" She inquired, turning her attention to him.

"Well, it seems as though, in all your years of existence, you've never seen anything quite like this. So it is rather surprising that I've seen something that you haven't."

"Trifles," she retorted, waving off his discovery, "Now tell me Jack, in all your life, have you ever cared for someone other than yourself?"

"Aye, and it killed me," his eyes turned grim.

"Oh Jack! You're so dramatic." She teased, pushing his shoulder.

"I'm afraid not! My actions are quite justifiable, missy," he protested, "I'm serious."

She looked at him for a moment; his eyes grew detached and grim. He seemed so afraid and vulnerable. Maybe he was actually telling the truth after all.

"So … you died?"

"Aye."

"And yet here you are."

He nodded his head, smiling at her curiosity, "Would you rather me be anywhere else?"

"Alive," she confirmed, poking his arm.

"I would hope so, or else this would be nothing but a dream now, wouldn't it?"

"But–" she still didn't understand.

"Trifles, dearie." He raised his hands to her, looking terribly uncomfortable, "Trust me, I won't be going back."

She narrowed her brow. She decided to wait a few moments to ask her next question. "What was it like?"

"Maddening," he replied coldly. Come to think of it, he wasn't sure what was worse – the feeling of his flesh being torn limb from limb by the jaws of the Kraken, or the thought of his majestic _Pearl_ trapped amongst insipid white sands while he was being followed by small rock-like creatures and having heated debates with himself about who to invite to his garden parties.

"Ah … so you're afraid?" She deduced.

"Like I said, darling, I won't be going back." He took another swig of the warm brandy.

The small fragments of light began to disappear; their fury was outlived as the evening sky devoured their spirit.

"All good things come to an end, or so it seems," she concluded, lying back fully on the soft blanket beneath her.

"Not in your case. You've delayed your judgment by an eternity, yet you sit here, complaining about not being able to die – as if it was a _bad thing_ no less."

"It is a bad thing, Jack! Do you not realize that you are tampering with something you cannot possibly comprehend?" she protested, noticing a harsh look on his face. "I'm saying it for your own good!"

"Well, aren't you quite the example," he stated, shrewdly. He lifted himself off the blanket, taking his place at the helm once more.

She sighed, looking down at her feet. He was right – she was no better than him. She had, at one time, sought out the fountain for her own selfish reasons as well. Who was she to deny him of following his own selfish impulses?

She raised herself up from the soft surface and took the blanket in her hands. 'I'm sorry, Jack. Please take my advice with a grain of salt – I am no better.' She turned to continue her way down the steps.

"Bella!" he yelled out to her before she could disappear below decks.

She turned to him only to find him motioning for her to come back to him at the helm. She reluctantly made her way back to him, unsure once again. She was always unsure when it came to Jack – he was as untamable and unpredictable as the sea.

He slithered an arm around her waist. "I can't help but come to the realization that you seemed to be, for a moment, concerned about my welfare?"

She smirked at his forwardness. "Oh, that was just one of those passing moments, you know?" Her voice was thick with sarcasm.

He gripped her waist tighter, causing her to shift forward toward his chest – causing a few of the trinkets around his waist to jingle. His face drew near, so near that she could now feel his pungent breath upon the skin of her cheeks, yet it didn't faze her.

"Just like this moment?" he whispered, grazing his lips against hers as he watched her dark eyes close in anticipation. He smiled, letting the edges of his mustache tickle the very edges of her lips, as he rubbed her nose with his. Her heart skipped a beat each time she felt his chapped lips close in on hers, yet she never felt them make contact. His soft, shallow breath enticed her even further, her lips yearned for his, but she dared not to move. She allowed herself to raise her hands to his chest, letting a few of her fingers explore his smooth, bare skin, while the others were tormented by a rough linen barrier. He felt her heart race, as his competed against it. His hands did not waver from their position on the small of her back and on a lone peg of the helm – commanding two women at once for what seemed like an eternity.

"I'm nothing like him, darling," he cooed, rubbing his nose along her soft cheek.

She opened her eyes.

"Can you handle that?"

She swallowed slowly, meeting his gaze with hers. "I don't know."

* * *

Her feet hit the stairs with an undeniable authority, her finger tips grazed the rails as the sounded of her arrival echoed below decks. Most of the men were out and about on deck or below in the armory. She casually sauntered towards her hammock, folding her blanket into a compact square so it could fit neatly on top of one of the crates nearby.

"You didn't come back last night."

"What?" His tone of voice startled her, causing her to drop the blanket. She turned around to find a rigid James Moore emerging from the darkness.

"James! You scared the hell out of me!" she exclaimed, placing a hand on her chest.

"Last night …" he continued, paying no mind to her statement, "you were with the Captain, am I right?"

"That's right."

"You never came back," he reiterated. "So you've finally let him go, have you? For a pirate no less, a fine choice you've made," Moore insinuated – constituting a well played verbal slap in the face for his General.

She stopped, half-turning to meet his gaze.

"That's none of your business," she said through her teeth, her muscles grew tense at his statement.

"Is it now?" He stood. "Have you've forgotten what purpose we've set out for?"

A flame ignited in her eyes. "Have _you_ forgotten, my dear James, the _role_ our Captain will play in the reawakening of Ares?" She answered his question with another, letting her hand grazed the scar under the neck of her tunic.

His eyes narrowed.

"Men like Jack, don't happen to stumble upon our doorstep very often, James. If he does, indeed, plan on fulfilling his selfish impulses by gaining immortality, do you not think he would do it by any means necessary? Especially after being eluded by it so many times?" she inquired further, pouting at Jack's misfortune while taking a few steps closer to her lieutenant.

"So how does cavorting with him until the early hours of the morning factor into your plan?" His voice turned icy and bitter.

She scolded him with her gaze for a few moments, only to break it moments later when an unsettling commotion seemed to have formed above them.

"General!" The young Colin Andrews mustered through wide eyes and heavy breathing, "A ship's been spotted! Captain wants all hands!"

They both shot up, but before James could reach the steps, Isabella stopped him. "Remember, James, I am no fool."

He grimaced. '_You may not be a fool, but you've grown foolish for him,'_ he thought, hurrying along passed her.


	16. The Wandering Traveler

**A/N**: Sorry for the delay on this chapter. I was going a bit of homework on ship rigging and Greek mythology. I found that the _Odyssey_ book 5, regards Calypso (Kalypso) as a sea nymph rather than a pagan god. So it was an interesting connection between my tale and historically written texts.

In regards to Hermes' character, I tried to stay as close as possible to his physical depiction in Greek red figure pottery, and countless mosaics. But, I changed his persona quite a bit.

I'd also like to thank Nytd for her diligent beta-ing for this chapter, along with chapters 1-5 (I completely revamped my entire story, by the way). Also, I'd like to thank mrs.tinamarina-funfunfun for continuing to read my tale!

Enjoy! Reviews are always appreciated.

* * *

**Chapter 16 - The Wandering Traveler**

Hector Barbossa stood at the rail of the _Pearl's_ black quarter deck, his spy glass extended to its fullest capacity, eye peering at the large, ghostly ship that approached them at an irrefutable speed.

It was a true ship of three masts, fully rigged with a suite of square, white sails that shimmered in the early morning sun. Most likely a merchant vessel and he knew merchant ships were fairly slow, full of valuable goods, and under-gunned because of skinflint owners. He squinted, admiring the lifelike detail put into the ship's bowsprit, which depicted two golden snakes projecting from the bow.

A merchant vessel she was and a beautiful one at that. He nodded, continuing to study the approaching ship with a sinister grin.

He waited a few moments, studying the ship carefully with scrupulous eye. He noticed something fairly odd. It seemed as though the crew had not sounded any sort of alarm concerning their approach.

"_Where's the crew?_" he thought, shifting his gaze over to the _Hellride._

"Bring 'er about ye mangy bilge rats!" he spat, "I'll be needin' a word with the lady."

* * *

Isabella appeared on deck amidst a chaotic scurrying with Lieutenant Moore following close behind. Weapons dangled from both of their waists, "Colin – Colin Andrews!" Moore commanded, placing a hand on the leather wrapping of his sword.

"Lieutenant! General!" Colin exclaimed, running down from the quarterdeck, "she's coming to us on our port."

"Where's Jordan?" Isabella interjected.

"Below decks, in the armory," Colin answered, hastily.

"Find him; make sure he's by my side immediately," she pressed, watching the young man nod his head and scamper down below decks.

She raced to the rail, climbing up the shrouds between a mast and the deck, to freely peer over at the approaching vessel.

Mr. Gibbs hurried alongside Jack, "On deck! I want all hands! Master Ragetti, secure the topmast stay tackle!"

He watched as the pirate secured the long tackle blocks, and the single blocks. His stout counterpart, Pintel, assisted him by strapping down the lower blocks with a hook and thimble.

"She's a beauty, Cap'n." Gibbs confirmed anxiously, rubbing his palms together, "Aye, we're in store for a good ol' speck of piratin'."

"Jack!" A familiar voice yelled out for him.

"Hector, shouldn't you be on my _Pearl_," he continued on.

"This is no time for petty games, Jack," Barbossa confirmed, shifting his gaze over to Isabella, who was dangling dangerously from the rigging.

"Care to explain why that ship has no crew, lass?" Barbossa's eyes grew skeptical. Barbossa's question stopped Jack in his tracks.

She turned her head to them, distant eyes glued to the ground, "He's here," she muttered.

"Mind clarifyin' that statement?" Barbossa pressed on.

"It's _The Wandering Traveler_," she explained, turning her gaze over to Jack, Gibbs and Barbossa. "Hermes is here."

"Lord have mercy …" whispered Gibbs under his breath, motioning the signs of the cross on his chest.

She turned to her men hastily, remembering her position, "To arms! He is no friend of mine."

"James, align the troops in formation behind me," she urged.

"Behind? But, General –" James protested.

"Behind me, James! That's an order!" She turned, standing her ground as the ghostly vessel dropped anchor alongside the _Hellride_.

"Whatever you do, do not strike first," She turned away, firmly.

* * *

He came to her – a young, lean, ghostly white male with iridescent skin. His icy blue eyes could sear the frailest of souls, gathering their vulnerabilities with a single glance. His eager lips told tales of countless circumstance. He was a messenger of the gods – a vile basilisk who prided himself on his cunning and countless faulty allegiances for his own personal gain.

He wore a traditional broad-brimmed traveler's hat; feet adorned with sandals – beautiful and golden, believed to have carried the fiendish god across land and sea with the rapidity of wind, his wide strides never faltering. A gold herald's staff rested valiantly in his hand with two hissing snakes encompassing his slender arm. He vainly arranged his robe to hang on his right, to show the wholeness of his long golden hem.

"Hermes," she drawled, sauntering over to the snarling figure. "How deliciously ironic that you seem to show up whenever Hera does not wish to do her own bidding."

"Oh, Cleopatra," he laughed, bringing his hand eloquently up to his chin, "or Isabella is it? Isn't it funny how the _little _things tend to change, yet you always appear to be the same?"

"It wouldn't be as fun if I wasn't, now would it?" she scolded.

"You're just as much fun as a festering disease." He giggled femininely as he wrinkled his nose. "One that doesn't know when to stop, no less." He waved her off shrewdly, composing himself seriously once more, bringing his hand to one of the pouches on his belt.

"I've come to deliver a message," he stated, sighing at the blandness of his occupation.

"I'm still recovering from the last message you delivered to me," she retorted, clenching her fists.

"Oh, yes! I remember that one," he announced happily, raising a thin finger to her face. "That was the one about your brother!" He smiled, noticing her apparent vulnerability when it came to her family.

"Did I strike a nerve, my dear? I'm terribly sorry for your loss, you know, we never intended for it to go that far. What was I to do?" He smiled, bringing a hand up to his chest, letting out a sinister laugh that pierced her heart. "Was I to kill the relentless mule? Or let him continue to embarrass himself? You see, I did it for his own good," he explained, justifying his cold-hearted actions.

"Steady men," Lieutenant Moore instructed her eager troops. They were anxious to pounce on the revolting fiend at the drop of a hat. She hoped, for their sake they would not.

'_Easy boys_,' she thought, biting her lip, trying her hardest not to let her emotions get the best of her. Hermes was not the man to show any sort of weakness to, for it would be in Hera's knowledge faster than anyone would expect.

"I'm sure you've gotten over it by now," he added, narrowing his brow. He took a few steps towards her.

She was silent for a moment, dropping her gaze to her feet, "You confirm it?" she mustered, sheepishly. "You murdered my brother?"

"Now, now, child. It's not good to trouble yourself with dealings done in the past," he advised, pouting at her unfortunate tribulations.

He ran his eyes along the length of her body, painting a sly smirk on his lips as he slowly encircled her like a vulture upon a dead carcass – waiting to feast upon her frail flesh at the opportune moment. He picked at her worn clothing distastefully, grimacing at how unkempt she had become. He quickly cleaned his fingers on his garments with disgust. He probed her, going so far as to taking a lock of her greasy hair and smelling it deeply. He judged every inch of her superfluous existence.

"So, what have you turned into this time?" he inquired. "Isabella Selene – the grand old sailor's bed warmer?" he cooed, mockingly as he grazed his fingers along her cheek, long yellow fingernails digging into her skin. "It seems as though you're as much of a shape-shifter as I am."

She watched his skin slowly evolve, features twisting into a more delicate form. His voice transformed, heightening his festering laugh as his figure became petite and feminine. His long blonde locks made him the embodiment of all things beautiful.

"Now, I wonder which one of these men would like to have me," Hermes sneered, sauntered over to the unsuspecting crew, in the direction of one Jack Sparrow.

She licked her teeth fiendishly, locking her eyes on Jack. "Mhm, I think you'll do," she cooed, raising her arm eloquently in the air, letting the two snakes on her arm twist and turn gracefully into a small stringed instrument. She began to sing a delicate song in Jack's ear, one that much resembled the call of a siren.

An indescribable force came over Jack, causing his eyes to roll back with pleasure, as his mouth dropped open in lust as Hermes' continued to snake her tongue through Jack's thick locks, into his ear.

Isabella grabbed Hermes' wrist with unrelenting force. "Hold your tongue, serpent," she whispered, feeling a great fury arise within her. "Don't touch him."

Hermes' features mutated, head slithering, beginning to shake from the agonizing transformation into his male form. His once sheepish and seductive voice turned cruel and harsh towards Isabella's intrusion.

"No, on the contrary, _Miss Isabella_, you should hold yours," he breathed in her ear, pulling her close enough for his hot breath to radiate off the light hairs of her jaw. "You should know your place by now," he spat, forcefully causing her to relinquish her grasp of his wrist, growling at her insubordination.

"You should know your place. Hera seems to know it so well …" she stated nonchalantly, resolute in her stance. 'You'll always be Zeus' bastard child.'

He did not answer with any sort of cunning retort or sarcastic slur; rather he smirked sadistically, beginning to shift through his pouches. He had no reason to fret, for he now possessed a very valuable piece of information. He snickered, looking in Jack's direction.

He continued to shift through his wide array of pouches until he located the object in question, tossing it to Isabella with the tips of his fingers. It was a silver obolus coin, which was placed upon the eyes of the dead in offering to Charon, the ferryman of Hades. Those who could not pay the price were condemned to wander the swamp-like banks of the Acheron for one hundred years. The coin's glistening surface caught the greedy eyes of the pirates on board the vessel while letting out a soft, unfathomable sound in their ears as it twirled through the air into the palm of Isabella's hand.

"Send my regards to Charon when he ferries you across the swamps of Acheron after your demise." He turned away from her, beginning to make his way back to his ship, crossing Jack's path once more.

"You won't forget about me, will you handsome?" He giggled wickedly.

"I think you've lingered a little longer than I would have liked," Jack flashed him a nervous grin, letting his thieving hand wander to the messenger's pouches.

Hermes turned away, satisfied with the state in which he had left the unsuspecting pirate. He let his fingers graze the _Hellride's_ rail, looking back at Isabella. "I urge you to turn back. Your pathetic attempt of heroism is wasted and Hera will not stand for this blatant display of disrespect. You will only bring tragedy and loss of life to those you care for most."

She narrowed her brow at his advice.

"But then again, you're no stranger to that." He thrust his words into her soul, like the jagged blade of a sword.

He turned away, disappearing through the rail, leaving a dense fog in his absence.

* * *

She sat alone that night upon the cool rail of the forecastle deck. Knees tucked neatly against her chest, gripping her arms around her thighs as she rested her chin lightly upon them. The _Hellride's_ cool rail made her sun kissed skin turn to gooseflesh. She casually passed her arm over the small bumps to generate heat.

She closed her tear-filled eyes, taking deep breaths of cool, salty air, appreciating the soothing waves with her ears alone, in utter silence.

It was at that very moment that Hermes' merciless words about her brother had finally hit her. Hot, salty tears began to trickle down her cheeks; she found it harder to breathe as she felt her heart twist in tormented agony.

Faint indications of footsteps began to emerge from behind her, but she paid no mind to their soft patter, she wanted to be one with the sea.

"Would ye mind some company, lass?"

She turned, leveraging herself on the rail with a steady hand, "Captain Barbossa," she smiled through her tears. "No, not at all, please feel free."

He nodded his head, bringing his hands to his back as he swaggered his way to her side, "Aye, I never liked disturbin' a woman deep in her thoughts."

"Think nothing of it," she assured him, wiping her cheeks free of tears, turning her attention out to sea.

"So, what be the reason that a fine, young woman such as yourself is without company this evening?" Barbossa began, finding it odd that Jack had not joined her as he usually would.

She bit her lip, thinking of how she had avoided Jack's gaze after Hermes' unexpected visit. Under any other circumstance she would have welcomed his eyes, especially after their tender encounter the previous evening. "It's my fault," she sighed, trying not to let out another stream of tears. "This is all my fault. It's no longer safe for anyone to be around me."

"Ye don't have to explain," he stated, placing a hand on the cool mahogany rail.

"I believe it's time fer a changed of scenery, don't you think so?" he inquired, trying to lighten her spirits.

She turned to him, curiosity glistening in her eyes, "What do you mean?"

"Too long ye've been cooped up on this blessed pile – long enough to drive any man in yer state of affairs to their wits end," his voice turned grim.

"I do hide it well, don't I?" she asked rhetorically, wiping away stray droplets of tears from her cheeks. "So, what are you proposing, Captain?"

"I be proposing nothing, Miss Isabella, but I'll be asking ye if ye'll be much obliged to keep an ol' pirate company this evening instead of wallowing here all by yer lonesome?" She smiled at his concern for her well being.

"By the smell of it, me ship's cook had outdone himself, once again," he continued, turning his head to the _Pearl_. "A fine wine, perhaps? Something to warm the spirit … I know ye Italian's have an affinity for wine," he persuaded.

"That's the truth of it!" She exclaimed, placing a hand on her belly, feeling it rumble at the sound of the appetizing meal.

He smiled, offering his arm to her. She took it gracefully, lightly resting her fingers on his worn, brown coat as he lead her down the stairs to the long gangplank that lead to the _Pearl_.

He bowed, "Ladies first, M'dear."

She snickered, picking at her clothes, "Captain, I am in no state a proper _lady_ would be in!"

"Aye, that be true …" he scanned her foul clothing. "Chaplain!" He turned to yell at his young bosun, "The lady is in need of a hot bath an' fresh clothes."

"No, no! That's not necessary really…" she insisted, following Barbossa onto the shadowy black decks of the _Pearl_.

"Ye can't deny yourself of everythin', lass," Barbossa smiled. "I've invited ye on _my_ ship this evenin' as me honorable guest, and you'll be treated as honorably as a pirate could offer to treat ye."

* * *

She immersed her body in the hot fluid, confining herself in the small wooden basin Chaplain had dragged into Barbossa's cabin just moments before. She inhaled the hot steam, letting the water relax her tense muscles and troubled mind. She cleared her psyche as best as she could, closing her eyes to a blank, black oblivion. The only spark of life that she could detect was that of the glowing candlelight, which seemed to radiate within her closed eyelids.

Barbossa had prepared some clean clothing for her to wear. A loose fitting, white linen shirt paired with fitted, brown trousers, hemmed just below her knees. A pair of old boots rested beside the basin, to shield her bare feet from the cold, watery decks.

She dressed quickly, not wanting to wear out the captain's patience or starve to death on her account.

She wrung out her hair between her fingers, releasing a stream of lukewarm water fall to the floor. She shook her head back and forth, letting her wet locks flow freely behind her back.

She opened the great wooden doors of the cabin once she was finished, finding Barbossa and his young bosun on deck conversing with the ships cook, Harrison – an older man who appeared to be about Barbossa's age, with matching beard.

The creak of the _Pearl's _black cabin door caught Barbossa's attention; he turned to her with welcoming smile.

"Ye clean up well," he complimented, holding up a large bottle of red wine. "Chianti?" he offered.

"Sounds perfect," she nodded in approval.

Chaplain and Harrison went about their duties, hauling the basin of water out of Barbossa's cabin, moving aside various charts to set his grand table for dinner.

Barbossa's black chart table had become more exciting and elaborate. Harrison was hard at work, placing new serving dishes such as tureens, sauceboats, and fine black china. Once their places were set, Harrison brought out the first course, which consisted of soups and stews, vegetables and boiled fish and meats arranged around a grand, candlelit centerpiece. The second course consisted of vegetables, meats and fish, with the addition of various fruits and an exotic pie. Barbossa uncorked the wine with his teeth, and poured her a hearty helping into a dark, wooden goblet.

"I have to teach you a little secret my mother taught me," she boasted, taking an orange from the table and slicing it open above her goblet of wine.

"Oranges heighten the flavor. Even if you add some cherries, that would have worked as well," she continued, letting its juices drip down from her finger tips. She handed half of the orange to Barbossa.

"Aye, 'tis not a well kept secret, now is it?" he smiled. "Me ol' captain used the same trick as well."

"Your old captain?" she inquired curiously, as she chomped away on a roasted leg of lamb.

"Aye," he confirmed, remaining silent for a few moments as he poured himself a helping of wine. "In me youth I was nothin' but a scurvy deckhand on the galleon, _The Blessed Sin_. Me captain, Isaac Reinhart, was the father I ne'er had … used to drink his wine just like you," he nodded, squeezing the juice from the orange into his drink.

"He seemed like a good man,' she confirmed.

"As good as they come," his eyes lost their glimmer to an inner quarrel of dismay.

"How long as it been since you've started pirating?" she probed, sucking thick oil off her finger tips.

"I'd say 'bout thirty years er so. Started when I was just a lad," he stated, squinting his eyes in concentration.

She nodded, smiling at the captain through her wine glass. "You must know these waters like the back of your hand."

"Aye, but there still be parts that are still uncharted and un-pilfered," he smiled deviously.

"I find that hard to believe. It seems as though the world continues to get smaller and smaller as time passes," she answered gravely.

"As true as that notion may be, we cannot continue to fret over things that cannot be changed," he advised.

"Does the past not haunt your future?"

"Nay, lass. Only if I let it," Barbossa answered, taking a delicate sip from his cup. "Jack and I have both had our fair share of dealin's with the devil. One day we'll both have to pay with our souls once again," he confirmed. "Might as well just live while ye can."

She nodded her head in agreement, running a hand through her semi-dry tresses, wondering how long it would take for Jack to realize that she was gone.

* * *

Jack studied the silver obolus coin with a meticulous eye, placing it between two of his long fingers, extending toward a pool of dim candlelight. He weighed it in his palm for a few moments, studying its size and careful attention to detail. He brought it to his mouth, biting it tenderly to examine its density. He licked his teeth confirming that the coin was, in fact, made of some sort of wrought iron with traces of copper.

He grimaced at the sour taste of the coin's copper remnants, placing it back into the heavy pouch his thieving hand had lifted from Hermes' waist.

He turned his attention to the charts before him, continuing to study their contents carefully as he unlatched his compass from his belt.

The candlelight highlighted the domed cover's unique lapis lazuli finish, a semi-precious stone. It was a stone that was prized for its intense azure color. The compass possessed various brass-colored needles reflected small fragments of light while the inside lid flickered with a detailed map of the starry heavens. The rose itself was sliced from a walrus tusk and adorned with a small red arrow at the top.

He lightly flicked open his compass, watching the arrow spin aimlessly for a few moments, catching Jack's scrupulous eye. It slowly began to calm – stopping in the direction of the _Pearl_.

He licked his teeth, reaching for the half empty bottle of rum beside him, bringing it up to his lips for a few blissful moments. He closed his eyes as the liquid seared the back of his throat, a wonderfully familiar feeling.

The loud chime of a bell began to sound – it was morning watch, finally.

He held his compass in the palm of his hand, watching the needle point steadily at the _Pearl_ as he walked out on deck.

He continued his way up to the quarterdeck, occasionally turning back to see if his late night companion was in her proper place upon the forecastle. To his dismay, she was not. He stopped for a moment, closing his compass as he extended his neck to take a closer look. He took a few steps backwards up the stairs.

"Mornin' Cap'n," Marty nodded, quite immune to Jack's varying states of confusion.

"Mister Marty," Jack began, pointing to the forecastle. "Did Miss Isabella decide to retire during your watch?"

"Naw, Cap'n. Last I saw she left earlier in th' evenin' to accompany Barbossa back to the _Pearl_." Marty shrugged his shoulders.

A nervous feeling gripped Jack's stomach, '_I leave her alone for two bloody seconds and she's already off with Barbossa?_'

He shook off his trifling thoughts about the pair, taking his spot at the helm as Marty continued his way below decks.

He opened his compass once more, watching the needle reposition itself in the direction of his _Pearl_. He gritted his teeth, shaking the compass violently with both his hands. He set it down on the rail, shifting his weight onto his right leg, gripping a firm hand on the wheel. He flicked open the compass once more.

His eyes twisted and turned along with the dial, watching as it slowly began to compose itself, snapping back to its prior position.

"Hmph," he grunted, closing the compass and latching it back onto his waist.

He tied a line from rail to the wheel, holding it in its proper place. He backed away slowly to the steps, watching to see if the line would not budge.

He stopped for a moment at the stairs, looking down at his feet, hesitating to make his way down to the gangplank that connected him to what he desired most.


	17. Regret

**A/N**: Thought I'd throw in an angsty chapter that was inspired by the Nirvana song, "You Know You're Right."

I want to thank Nytd once again for her beta reading for this chapter (and also for just being awesome in general). You know I always appreciate it!

Also, the rating for my fic has been changed from M to T temporarily until my M chapters kick in.

Enjoy! Reviews are always appreciated.

* * *

**Chapter 17 – Regret**

"_I'm so warm and calm inside  
I no longer have to hide  
Let's talk about someone else  
Steaming, soon begins to melt  
Nothing really bothers her  
She just wants to love herself…"_

_**Nirvana – You Know You're Right**_

A strange wind filled the tattered, black sails silently covering the _Black Pearl_ into the night as if the ship were a ghost or illusion. Isabella found herself warm and ebullient in the company of Captain Barbossa.

"This has turned out to be a fine evenin', has it not?" Barbossa questioned, pouring the last bit of Chianti into the goblet that hung delicately between his fingers.

"That it has," she nodded, resting her back lazily against her chair. She found the evening to have turned out very proper compared to the ones onboard the _Hellride _with the inebriated Pintel and Ragetti. Although, she had to admit, it was more fun to watch them argue in a thick cloud of intoxication.

"I hope I was able to assist ye in easin' yer spirit, although I must apologize for me deficient in our wine reserves."

"Aye," she smiled, trying to laugh. "Any woman would think that five bottles of fine, aged wine would be good enough." She wrinkled her nose, finding the captain's attempt at a perfect evening very charming. Indeed.

"Yer not exactly like every woman, lass," he stated, matter-of-factly.

She paused for a moment, looking down at her slouching posture, her legs spread open and back leaning toward the comfort of the softly cushioned chair. Her hands, although washed, were stained with blood of centuries past. Her eyes were tarnished with merciless killings; her heart – disengaged from love and comfort. She was not the conventional epitome of femininity nor would she stand the idea of submission. She was unsure of how to react to Barbossa's compliment because whether it was true or not, she would never really know for sure. Arianna was her only female companion, she had no other.

She felt a higher sense of security around her soldiers, although her comfort with them could only go so far. She liked the idea of never having to be proper or ladylike, drinking to her wits end, belching, and eating her fill without worry or care about manners and appropriate conduct.

"Barbossa, you are a wise man, am I right?" she questioned, after a few moment of silence.

He raised his brow, narrowing an eye at the curious woman.

"One that prides himself on his word?" she inquired further.

He flashed a devious, yellow toothed grin as he leaned back into his chair.

"Do you believe in fate?" she inquired curiously, licking wine from her lips.

"Fate," he started, sucking his teeth. "It seems as though fate is not but what we make of ourselves, lass. I reckon that fate is just somethin' we inherit with our greatest triumphs, but all-in-all it's just human nature and we'll be actin' based on our own free will," he answered skeptically. His soft, yet curiously saddened tone caught her off guard.

"Bein' a man placed under the same curse as ye, I believe I know a thing er two about 'fate,' or what have ye."

She nodded, recalling Barbossa's tale of the cursed Aztec gold that had burdened him and his crew for ten long years aboard the _Pearl_. A horrible fate Jack was able to escape.

"So you don't believe that it was not fate that brought you and Jack together on this voyage?"

"Well, now, missy," Barbossa began, raising a knowing brow, "I'll have to be askin' ye the same question."

She narrows her eyes playfully. "What are you implying?"

"There are some things ye can take from a man with his age," he began, raising himself from his seat, stoically, "but ye can't take away me perception."

"Enlighten me," she disputed, resting her head back on her chair to look up at the captain.

"There are two things I be certain of in this life, Miss Isabella," he began, making his way towards the back of her chair, "and those two things be death, and Jack's undeniable weakness for unattainable women."

"So, he thinks of me as a challenge then?"

Barbossa shrugged his shoulders, raising his hand eloquently to his beard. "Would he be wrong in thinkin' that?"

"If that's what he really wants," she laughed softly, cocking her head to the side, thinking of the untamable man.

'_I wonder if it's really the other way around, Barbossa_,' she thought, lifting her goblet to the wise captain.

"A toast, then," she smiled, "to the wise Captain Barbossa?"

"To fate," he corrected, raising his goblet. "An' good company, o'course."

She nodded in approval, meeting his goblet in the air with hers. She drowned herself in the remnants of fine wine in her goblet, finding comfort in the warmness it brought to her cheeks. She bit the inside of her cheeks, letting her tongue continue to probe in the inside of her mouth for the sweet taste of wine.

"Next time, we shall have a few more bottles, aye?" she inquired, jokingly. "We'll have to find a suitable port."

"There not be many ports in these waters that are open to pirates droppin' anchor at their docks, lass. We'll not be welcomed as warmly as ye might think," Barbossa announced gravely.

"There must be some place that you're welcome, or at least _make_ yourselves welcome."

"Tortuga," he stated almost instantaneously. "A nesting place of mischievous debauchery - methinks you'll find it to your liking. We can replenish our stocks there if ye'd like, M'lady," he concluded.

"Tortuga, eh?" she thought for a moment. "I think we can afford to make port for just a day or two … we've all grown a bit restless. I need some solid ground beneath my feet. Will you show me this 'Tortuga' on your map tomorrow, Captain?"

"Aye, I'll be showin' ya everythin' you'll be needin' to see," he smiled.

"Very well then," she studied him, noticing an intriguing, but devious smile emerging from the corner of his lips.

"I should be going," she stated courteously, placing the goblet gently onto the finely decorated table.

"Thank you for your gallant hospitality, Captain Barbossa."

"Hector," he insisted, placing a hand on his chest, bowing low to the lady.

She returned his bow to the cordial captain. "Goodnight, Hector."

She turned, opening the black French doors to be greeted the cold, early morning breeze. She made her way out to the _Pearl's_ shadowy decks, taking in the magnificent and mysterious lady whom Jack truly longed for.

She ran her fingers along the _Pearl's_ dark rail, letting it lead her up to the forecastle – one of her favorite spots on the _Hellride_, the _Black Pearl_ and possibly on any ship for that matter. The _Pearl_ pulsated beneath her feet as it gracefully shifted between one serene tide to the next. The curvatures of the rail led her in the direction of the front of the forecastle, allowing her to catch a glimpse at the starry canvas above her.

Her hair danced in a coarse wind, mixed with sprinkles of love and hate. She could feel wicked eyes upon her, probing her, examining her spirit. Forces that were not of this world continued to invade her senses and perceptions. Locking her hands firmly on the black rail, she closed her eyes, allowing them passage through her.

In a sudden instance, she felt her body weaken. As she opened her eyes, she began inhaling short, pulsating breaths, softly gasping to be satisfied – yet, her lungs did not feel the slightest indication of fulfillment. She grabbed her chest, the origin of all her pain at that very moment, hoping to regain herself. Stumbling, she instinctively found herself seeking comfort in the cold, rigid, forecastle deck of the _Black Pearl_ as she struggled to continue to inhale.

Tingling numbness overcame her features, causing her lips to part and tremble uncontrollably; she let out breathless moans of unbearable pain, her saliva beginning to slither over the edges of her lip onto her shirt. She removed her hand from her chest, bringing it to her face, realizing that she was bleeding heavily from the scar on her chest. She winced, biting her lip, pounding her fist on the deck.

'_Damnit, not now!_' she thought as her perception began to slip into oblivion.

She heard _his_ menacing laugh echo within her mind, reminding her that it was almost time.

_His_ yearning for release caused her excruciating pain and for centuries _his_ desire plagued her soul, isolating her to unbearable solitude and despair.

_He_ caused her to lash out in unexplainable jolts of madness.

She was _his_ immortal cellmate.

_He_ yearned for freedom, a freedom that could only be achieved through the hands of he whose eyes are ridden with greed.

_He_ yearned for it so badly - it made her bleed, for _he_ was the death of her.

* * *

He Jack found himself halfway across the gangway between the _Pearl_ and the _Hellride _when he heard a hollow thud. He stopped, looking back at the _Hellride_ for any indication of movement or disturbance from the vessel. He turned his attention again to his_ Pearl_, raising his arms for balance as he swaggered his way toward her.

"'Ello, darling," Jack smiled warmly, leaning back into his swagger. "Miss me?"

He heard a small scuffle originating from the forecastle deck. He raised his brow, flicking his hat up as he cautiously took a few steps forward toward the stairs. The_ Pearl's_ small brass, hanging anchor lights along the sides of the ship lead his way through the darkness of night.

The black, wooden boards creaked forebodingly beneath his feet. Beyond the forecastle, morning began to arrive, radiating a solid bright, white light from the edges of the distant horizon. He hasted his pace up the steps; realizing most of the crew would be up and about their duties before long.

He spotted a white figure, sprawled out upon the deck. He took a few steps forward, examining the body, realizing that it was not just any body but _her_ body. The same body that found it _oh so convenient_ to jump ship that very evening to spend the night in the company of that slimy ol' cur, Barbossa – the very same man who stole _his_ ship.

"Well, look what we have here, aye?" he called out to her. "Her _majesty_ seems to have had too much to drink this evening. Do tell, where your discourteous and thieving escort could possibly have gone?" he inquired shrewdly, wrinkling his nose when he noticed that she had not given him any reaction.

"Time to get up!" he exclaimed, lowering himself to one knee beside her, shifting her hair behind her ear as he softly patted her face. He placed a hand on her cheek, running his finger beneath her nose. Her breath was delicately faint, almost deadly. He rose up to his feet, feeling a cold sensation on his knees, he looked down at the dark spots, grimacing. He began wiping his knees in the effort to rid himself of the strange substance with his hands, bringing them back up to his face after a few moments of ineffective cleaning.

A thick, maroon liquid stained his hands. He lifted a finger to his mouth, licking it fully with his tongue, letting it sink into his saliva – blood.

"Oh, bugger," he cringed, kneeling back down to turn her body up. His heart stopped, her shirt was soaked, becoming darker toward the laceration's origin – the center of her chest.

He looked about the ship for any sign of the man who was supposed to be on watch, yet he found nothing. He leaned back, readjusted Isabella's limp body in his arms, looking up instinctively as he pulled her to his chest.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted vague movements aboard the _Hellride's _main deck. Mister Gibbs was always the first to wake most mornings, and never before had Jack been so happy to see his dependable first mate.

"Gibbs," he managed breathlessly, his mouth open and eyes aghast.

"G'mornin', Cap'n–" he began happily, narrowing his brow in fright as he laid his eyes upon Isabella's limp frame.

"Jesus, Mary, mother of God … in the cabin, Jack! Before the rest of the crew sees 'er!" he urged, pushing Jack into the room.

"What in happened to 'er, Jack?" he continued.

Jack did not answer, his mind was elsewhere.

"Do we have plaster? Needles? Thread?" questioned Gibbs frantically, rushing to Jack's side as he positioned Isabella's body onto the crisp white bed.

"Rum," Jack finally states, "for her and for me," his voice grew weary, untying the laces of her blood saturated shirt to set his sights on the ghastly wound.

"I'm sorry, love. Didn't really want it to happen this way," he said to her, taking out a small blade from his belt, cutting the front of her shirt open.

They worked as silent surgeons that fateful morning. Jack cleaned Isabella's deep laceration with strong spirits and a thin cotton rag, doing as best he could to stop the bleeding. He dipped the tip of a fine needle in oil, motioning for Gibbs to hold the cleaned wound together with his fingertips. He licked the very end of the cotton thread, wetting it thoroughly with the saliva below his tongue, slipping it through the hole of the needle with great precision. Armed with delicate and nimble fingers, Jack sutured Isabella's wound with great care. He sighed in relief when placing the last stitch in her blood encrusted chest; he had finished just in time to hear the hustle and bustle of daily crew activity just outside his door.

* * *

"What have you done with her?" Moore stated angrily, plowing his way through the large group of crew and soldiers. "She didn't come back _again_ last night and now she's missing."

"I bloody saved her, you pompous nitwit!" he yelled to the infuriated lieutenant.

The soldier's eyes were skeptical and harsh.

Moore paused; his expression showcased his bewilderment as he looked down to Jack's blood saturated sleeves and hands. He ran his large hand through his thick red hair, biting his lip.

"Damnit!" Moore exclaimed, gritting his teeth as he took a fierce step forward towards Jack.

"You can square away your differences with each other later. We've got plenty of swords down below decks for you two to hack away at each other with. But now, we've got more important things to look into, James," urged Lieutenant Jordan, pulling Moore away with a firm hand on his shoulder.

"You remember what I said when we left, Sparrow? Arms length from her – this is your final warning," he reminded him sternly before turning to disappear behind the cabin door.

* * *

Jack snuck into his cabin, secretly for the next two evenings, leaving fresh dressings for Isabella's wounds on a small, candlelit table near her bed. He sat restlessly by her side both nights, his presence was ghostly and his movements were as quiet as a sea sprite. Most of the crew thought the thoughtful display to be the work of Pintel and Ragetti, who often left small home remedies for Isabella's abrasion with the captain.

'_What's this?' Jack inquired, curling his lip at the yellow liquid. _

'_Somethin' me mum used to make when I was ill as a boy,' smiled Ragetti, handing Jack the large mug._

'_Well, what's in it?' he inquired skeptically._

'_Mashed corn,' Ragetti stated. 'Used to call it – Atol,' he smiled, wiggling his fingers, slightly crossing his eye. 'All fancy-like.'_

_Jack paused, smelling the liquid within the mug. 'Mashed corn, you say?' _

_Ragetti nodded in agreement. 'You can add little corn kernels, if ya like.'_

'_And, this mashed corn … will help in some sort of way, will it not?'_

'_Aye, Cap'n. Mum always said that you're supposed to keep the ill on a vegetable diet. I remember her roasting apples and spinach fo' me fo' supper when I used to get hurt. I just figured, if I mashed the corn, she'd be able ta eat it better.'_

'_Mashed corn…' Jack questioned out loud._

'_You gotta work with whatcha have, Cap'n. We aren't exactly stowin' any balms or ointments and by the looks of it, we won't be havin' any for awhile … might as well resort to quackery.'_

_Jack took the mug with both hands, bringing it up to his lips, taking a small sip. 'The wooden eyed, shotten herring might be on to something,' he thought. His concoction was quite good. Remarkably good, as it were. Jack took another sip. _

'_Cap'n …' Ragetti interrupted. _

'_Aye?' Jack swallowed._

'_Ya know that ain't for you, right?'_

* * *

Lieutenant Moore and Jordan stood guard over Isabella's comatose body for two long days. They held their position with utmost honor, yet failed to stay awake for the entire evening – leaving Jack ample time to venture in and out of the cabin during his morning watch.

On the third night, Jack found that his efforts would not go without reward; he finally heard the ruffling sounds of life from the white cabin bed.

"Jack?"

He arose from his chair with silent haste, meeting Isabella at her bedside. "Shush, darling," he placed a finger on her lips. "Don't want those two to kill me, now do you?" he whispered softly, removing his hat, smiling as he leaned his body closer to hers, his mouth inches away from her ear. His heart quickened at the sound of his name on her lips.

She smiled, fluttering her eyes from exhaustion. "What happened? I'm so tired…" her raspy voice trailed as she began to regain consciousness. She raised a hand to her warm forehead, attempting to open her heavy eye lids regardless of the stinging presence of candlelight.

The room was lit with an arrangement of candles upon her cabin's large mahogany table. She was, definitely, no longer on the mysterious _Pearl_. She turned to find her lieutenants Moore and Jordan asleep at her table, snoring loudly and fidgeting in subconscious bliss. It must have been very late in the evening. She turned her attention back to Jack, who was arranging her dressings upon the table at her bedside.

"You just had a bit of an episode – nothing to worry about. You must have had too much to drink at dinner," he lied, finishing his work on the table. He extended a hand to her, running his fingers through her soft, clean hair in the attempt to sooth her.

She swallowed hard, feeling tension in her chest, as if a great weight had been placed upon her. She cleared slimy congestion from her throat. "I'm sorry, Jack. I must have worried you and everyone else for that matter."

"S'alright, love," he cooed, smirking at her from the corner of his lip.

He ran his thumb lightly above her eyebrow. "Do you remember what happened?"

"No one attacked me – if that's what you mean," she stated, knowing exactly what had happened to her and who was to blame. She paused for a moment, feeling the warmth radiating from Jack's hand as it contrasted with the coolness of his rings. "I just started feeling ill … I couldn't breath and I don't know. It just happens to me sometimes, Jack. I'm sorry."

He moved his thumbs to her lips, resting her back down on top of the bed. "Save your strength, darling. No need to be sorry," he insisted.

"How long have you been by my side?" she inquired, resting her head back upon the down mattress, feeling the timber creak as she shifted her weight.

"Not very long at all," he lied, knowing he had spent most of the past two days storming in and out of the cabin at random intervals, under the noses of two infuriated army lieutenants.

"Picked this outfit all by your lonesome did you?" he joked, picking at her shirt, hoping to change the conversation for both their sakes.

She wrinkled her nose, smiling at his sarcasm. "No, they were given to me! I consider myself lucky to even have clothes on my back at this point."

"Ah, so I should consider myself a very unlucky man," he pouted.

She giggled, bringing her hand up to her mouth to muffle her small bursts of laughter as Jack urged her to stay quiet, yet was warmed by the sound of her amusement.

"Jack, you know it's hard for me to stay quiet around you," she chuckled.

"You know, a lot of women seem to have the same problem," he smiled deviously, rolling the edges of his mustache with his fingers. "I don't know what it is about me, really."

'_Oh, Jack. Is this how you charm all your women?_' she thought.

She brought her hand down, lowering her eyes to scan her body. She sighed as she looking down at her blood stained shirt. "_Bloody hell, I just got this!_" she thought, lifting the shirt by its laces to assess the damage to her chest. She glided her fingers over the edges of small strips of stained dressing tied tightly around her ribcage, running her finger tips over the small garter that held it firmly in place.

"Did you take care of my wound?" she inquired, softly.

"Aye, just a quick stitch here and there," he replied, nonchalantly.

"So, you're a doctor too?" she smiled.

"Nay, it's about the only good thing me father taught me. Being captain of a ship comes with its responsibilities, love. Having a stable surgeon aboard is more than a luxury for pirates such as meself."

She sighed, looking over to Jack's shadowy figure, guiding her eyes from his bare chest up to his lips, soaking in his dark gaze. She picked softly at her dressing, thinking that perhaps, her episode was much worse than she had anticipated if Jack felt the need to be at her side.

"I heard you were just like your father."

"Easy now," he cautioned, ignoring her previous statement. He rested his hand on hers, moving it away from her dressing. "S'not a pretty sight."

She lifted a hand to his face, brushing her fingertips tenderly on his cheeks, letting them flow gently to the shallow curvatures of his ear, down his lean neck. His reputation as a selfish rogue escaped him, for he had saved her from the bleeding.

They lay there for awhile, enjoying each others warm, gentle touches and desirable stares.

His skin craved her touch, fascinated by her aura and relived by her presence. He was the first to advance, running his hands up her forearm, letting the small sash around his wrist graze her skin ever so lightly. He passed his thumb over the bold tattoo on her wrist, feeling her skin grow rigid with small bumps of gooseflesh. He gently took the hand that probed his face, pausing for a moment.

"You've been avoiding me," he spoke honestly as he removed his lightweight frock coat, placing it upon her shoulders.

"I have no choice, Jack," she whispered, gripping his hand. "I can't let them take any one else from me."

Jordan snorted, followed by a sudden irritable shifting from Moore upon the chairs near the great table. They both stood quiet until the men quickly began to snore once more.

"Shit…" she exhaled. "Jack, you must go–" she locked her eyes on his.

"Shush," he advised her, lowering himself upon her face, rubbing the tip of his nose gently long her artfully straight septum, breathing lightly upon her skin. He raised a hand to her face, caressing her temple as he tickled her cheeks with his mustache.

"You smell a lot better than you did yesterday," he joked softly, letting the hot breath from his laugher radiate within her ear.

"Wish I could say the same about you," she retorted in a sharp whisper, taking the small braids of his beard between her fingers.

He smiled at her, feeling her eyes pierce his – she truly was a challenge. She smiled back playfully, biting his top lip, igniting a fire that lay dormant within him. He seized her lips slowly but passionately, bringing both his calloused hands around her face, cupping them delicately amongst a sea of soft skin and tangled hair. The shimmering candle light painted an amber glow upon her pale face – highlighting her soft cheeks, inviting eyes and alluring lips. Her eyes were closed in ecstasy, awaiting his fierce passion that he delivered to her with each kiss and arousing embrace. She opened her eyes instinctively between their harsh kisses, watching him beam with undeniable radiance.

She felt a raw, tingling sensation emanating from between her thighs, which heightened with every stroke from his skillful tongue. She let her hands wander through his long, tangled locks, deepening her hold on him as he brushed away his frock coat off her shoulders. He gently untied the thin laces of her shirt, shifting the collar with his finger tips to explore her smooth, defined collarbone.

She broke away, gasping for air as he licked and sucked her bottom lip, biting it forcefully before he felt satisfied enough to released her. He growled.

"Tease," he lowered his voice to a harsh whisper, rubbing his cheek against hers.

"We shouldn't," she whispered, "not while they're here."

"Where's your sense of adventure?" he laughed under his breath.

"Jack, you must go," she urged. "Before something happens that shouldn't."

"I don't think that's the case here, darling," he mused, biting her cheek gingerly, advancing upon her once more.

"No, Jack. I'm serious." She pushed him away. "I can't."

He paused for a moment, leaning back away from her. "Would you regret it?" he questioned, averting his eyes to the floor.

She hesitated, feeling an overwhelming urge to protect him from the harm that she had bestowed not only upon her brother, but upon Alastair and all the men that had tried to become close to her. She would not make the same mistake and she would not jeopardize another life.

"Yes ... I would," she lied coldly, biting her lip hard as she turned away from him with eyes saturated with regret.

He nodded, letting out a long sigh of dissatisfaction before picking up his tricorn hat from the edge of the bed. He refused to bed a woman that was unwilling to be taken.

"You can return my coat to me when you're feeling well enough," he stated drearily, making his way towards the door.

Jack paused at the door, opening it slightly, letting the early morning sunlight pour into the cabin. He half turned to her, watching her avert her eyes to the floor.

"Don't believe all the stories you hear, love. If I were anything like me father, I would have left you behind a long time ago," he stated disdainfully, shutting the door behind him as he left, leaving her to the coldness of a lonely bed.


	18. Lt Jordan Amellius Baxter

**A/N:** This chapter provides a closer look at Lieutenant Jordan's character - inspired by the song "Doesn't Remind Me" by Audioslave. He's such a smart ass, maybe him and Turk could hang out - right Nytd? ;)

I'll be exploring Lieutenant Moore in upcoming chapters while researching a bit more about gladiator training methods. Should be an interesting twist for the next chapter. The _Hellride_ needs a little excitement before making port at Tortuga!

Thanks once again for Nytd and TinaMarina for their helpful comments!

Enjoy! Reviews and constructive criticism are always welcome.

* * *

**Chapter 18 – Lt. Jordan Amellius Baxter**

"_The things that I've loved the things that I've lost,  
The things I've held sacred that I've dropped,  
I won't lie no more you can bet,  
I don't want to learn what I'll need to forget._

_I like throwing my voice and breaking guitars,  
Cause it doesn't remind me of anything,  
I like playing in the sand what's mine is ours,  
If it doesn't remind me of anything."_

**Audioslave** – "Doesn't Remind Me"

"_No! Mummy I don't want to go with her!" _

"_Don't be silly, Jordan. Don't you want to go play swords with your cousins?"_

"_No! I don't want to go with the scary lady!" he shouted, tactlessly. _

_Isabella smirked at the young boy before her as she crouched down to meet his height. He tightly wrapped his arms around his mother's waist as she approached, shielding his face with his long, dark hair, pretending to be invisible from her stern gaze. Isabella cocked her head to the side, peering through a small hole in his tresses, noticing that his eyes were saturated with tears that cascaded down his mother's grime ridden gown. His mind was fierce and his soul was full of conviction, yet he could not face his fear of her. _

"_Are you sure he's not too young?" she questioned, patting the small boy's head in the effort to soothe him. _

"_Nay," she nodded her head. "Has he celebrated his twelfth birthday?"_

_The obedient mother nodded vigorously. "Yes, just last week."_

"_Then, it is time," Isabella confirmed, rising to her feet to meet his mother's gaze. _

"_No! Mummy, don't leave me!" he cried loudly, tugging on her dress, exhaling small bursts of air frantically. _

"_Your son will be allowed to fight in the armor and with the weapons that are best suited to his skills," she affirmed. _

"_How long will it be until he will be returned home?"_

"_Three to five years, then he will be freed to you, if he still wishes to return." She made certain her terms were clear, knowing that not one of her soldiers has returned home yet, choosing to remain by her side. _

"_He will receive three square meals a day and proper medical care when needed," she continued, placing her hands on her waist. _

"_Mummy!" Jordan cried frantically, gripping his mother's waist once more. _

"_Jordan Amellius Baxter," Isabella spoke sternly, causing the young boy to jump in his skin, ceasing his childish cries._

"_You will come to me freely - not an enslaved child. The day you come to me will be the day you become a man." She paused, kneeling down before the boy, cupping her hands around his wet cheeks. _

_Her eyes grew soft, watching the boy quiver his lip in sadness. Isabella sighed, knowing that separating boys from their mothers was the hardest part of her duties. His eyes grew red and irritated from hot tears and constant rubbing from his rough, sullied sleeve. His large pupils expanded as her face drew near. He sniffed his congested nose, swallowing the thick slime that dripped down from the back of his throat. He finally looked up at her with his large, brown eyes, removing the hair that shielded his face. _

"_You, my child, will be revered for your loyalty, courage and discipline," she spoke softly, smiling at the boy. "But you must come to me," she urged, caressing the boy's cheek as she wiped the wetness beneath his nose. _

"_I will not harm you, you will be my comrade," she smiled, assuring the boy, for she was his mother now. _

_Jordan nodded, looking up at his mother. He watched her pat his soft hair for a moment as she smiled down at his sad eyes. _

"_Go along, dear. Your cousin James is waiting for you," his mother spoke softly. "Mummy will be back to visit you every chance she gets."_

_Jordan smiled through a blanket of tears and tangled, dark tresses. "Will you really, mummy?" he inquired further, looking for his mother's reassurance._

"_Of course, Jordan," she said with ease, biting her lip, knowing that she may never see her son again. _

_Jordan relinquished his grasp on his mothers waist, beaming as he ran over to his energetic red-haired cousin, never turning back. _

_Jordan's mother turned to Isabella, a sad look now graced her face. "Will he be all right, General?" _

"_Aye, he will grow to be a fine man, just like your husband," she affirmed, watching the mother's eyes swell with tears at the mention of her gallant husband, who had served as a great lieutenant under Isabella's command. Yet his death came at no surprise to her, most of her men rarely lived past the age of forty. Jordan's mother nodded her head and finally smiled, curtsying to her superior._

_Isabella gestured a small token of thanks to the brave mother for bringing, yet another son, to her doorstep. _

* * *

"Three days," Jordan confirmed. "That's what Captain Barbossa says."

"Aye," she nodded, feeling relieved that both ships were just days away from the sandy shores of the pirate safe haven, Tortuga. She crossed her arms, leaning back into her pillow, shifting uncomfortably from the tight garter wrapped around her chest. She cleared her throat, placing a hand on her heart as she painfully coughed up congestion from her throat, relieving her airway from the thick blockade.

"And James?" she questioned, sighing at her lieutenant's frequent absence.

"Running around below like the barbarian he is. He felt the need to hold early morning training for the men," he sat down at her bedside, idly arranging her dressings.

"As he always does," she nodded, smirking with one corner of her lip.

She placed a hand on her chest as she coughed forcefully from a tingling sensation in her throat. "Status report on the men," she managed between her coughs, positioning herself upon her elbows.

"They're all well in spirit – got over the seasickness early on. Unlike someone I know…" he joked, poking some fun at his general and finding a corresponding smile grace her troubled face.

"Brodie and Cameron have shown great promise – they fight with their hearts," he continued proudly.

"They must fight with their minds – hearts only know weakness," she stated disdainfully, watching her lieutenant's proud smile disappear from his lips.

"Continue," she motioned with her hands.

"Murphy suffered a puncture wound to his thigh by James' hand," he continued nonchalantly, looking at his general, knowing her reaction.

"Damnit, James!" she spat irritably. "I guess he assumes that it builds character, doesn't he? Does he not remember what we're doing here? I don't need him taking his frustrations out on my men – make sure of that," she insisted, pointing at Jordan intently before letting her eyes wander down to her lap.

"Is Murphy all right?" she asked finally.

"Yes, he's doing fine. He should be down there with the rest of the men. I made sure of that this morning," he said quickly, noticing Isabella's heightened petulance.

"What does he have to prove? I just don't understand him sometimes…"

Jordan nodded, averting his eyes down to his palms before rubbing them together, generating small indications of warmth.

She nodded, letting out a deep breath. "Jerome – has he shown progress from his injury?"

"Not fully. You can't exactly walk away from getting hit with a loose cannon. He's still walking lamely but he's showing excellent recovery with his shoulder."

She nodded again, pleased with the news.

"So, what of Captain Sparrow?" Jordan inquired suddenly.

"What of him?" she retorted, feeling her heart quicken at the sound of his name.

"Do you fancy him?" He raised a quizzical brow, smiling at his general.

"At the moment?" She smiled, chuckling softly as she spoke.

He snickered with her, nodding his head while picking at his dirty fingernails with a small dagger from his waist.

"I don't think I'm ready for that. I'm not one to condemn myself to wifely obedience," she stated after a moment, running her hands through her hair, tucking her loose tresses neatly behind her ears. "Neither is he willing to submit himself to the same fate, nor would I let him," she furthered.

"Well, would you bed him?" Jordan inquired, offering another alternative.

She narrowed her brow, looking at Jordan awkwardly. Her mind wanted to give him a stern response that would reflect her undeniable rank above him. Instead, she held her sharp tongue and studied Jordan for a moment, realizing in her heart that he was not but a young boy of nineteen and she was still the same old ghost that scared him as a child.

Their awkward silence was broken by laughter emanating from deep within Isabella's throat. She flashed Jordan a bright and joyful smile as she pushed his shoulder playfully. He swayed a bit from her push, watching her laugh at his further. Jordan was quite satisfied with his ability to read his general's actions, knowing her intentions even when she had not made them clear, considering it a skill that all lieutenants should possess.

"So, why didn't you last night?" he asked, relieved to see her change in humor.

"What? You saw us?" she gasped, placing a hand over her mouth.

"It's kind of hard _not_ to see the both of you. For a general – you really need to work on your stealth," he stated knowingly.

"What would you know about stealth?" She inquired lightheartedly as her cheeks flushed from embarrassment.

"A lot more than you think," he confirmed sarcastically.

"Is that so?" She raised her brow, raising a hand to her chin as she thought for a moment amidst a cloud of confusion until it hit her.

"Ah! Arianna …" she smiled, pointing a finger at Jordan.

"What of her?" he retorted, mimicking her previous response in regards to Jack.

"So, that's where she goes at night!"

"Don't start spreading that around, this is between you and me," he whispered, motioning his hand between them.

"All right, fine – take away my fun. It's all I have left you know," she pouted, playfully.

"Nonsense, you've got all of us," he confirmed, proudly.

She smiled warmly at his statement.

"Including Jack," he concluded, smirking. They both laughed for a moment, enjoying lighthearted conversation between comrades.

"All right, enough about Jack," Jordan raised his arms. "Returning to our previous subject – were you the one that cut Arianna's hair?" he asked, curling his lip.

"Why? You don't like it?"

"I guess it builds character," he snickered, rubbing his nose.

"All right smart ass, help your old horse of a general onto her feet. You know, I'm not one to stay in bed wallowing over my injuries," she stated, lifting a hand up to her young lieutenant.

"All right, up you go," he grunted, taking her hand firmly, lifting her up from the bed with ease.

She stumbled a bit, catching herself on the small table beside the bed. She took a small dagger from Jordan's hand, placing it firmly on the laces of her garter, cutting it loose from her ribcage. She sighed with relief, stretching her arms above her head and relaxing her shoulders before returning herself into her usual posture.

"How do women wear these bloody things all the time?" she inquired rhetorically, running a hand through her tangled hair, patting it down to her head.

He laughed softly, extending an arm to her. "Ready?" he inquired, lightly placing his hand on her shoulder.

She nodded, grabbing a hold of his arm, taking in a painful breath. "Aye, let's get this over with."

Jordan walked slowly beside her, leading her out of the cabin with caution. He gripped her arm firmly whenever he felt her sway or stumble. It seemed as though all of her time aboard the _Hellride_ did nothing for her balance, but she was getting better – she stumbled only a few times due to unexpected tide transitions. Most of the crew was busy with their duties on deck; some had not even realized Isabella had risen from the confines of her cabin until they felt her ghostly presence beside them. Soon, everyone on board the vessel stopped to watch her walking wearily about the _Hellride's _glistening deck.

Jordan looked around at the small crew, peering over his shoulder to find them staring at his general then quickly averting their eyes. He nodded his head. "What's our trajectory?" he inquired.

"Tortuga," she began, grunting from sharp pains caused by her moment. "That's where we're heading."

"Why are we stopping there?"

"One last night of 'mischievous debauchery' – as a wise man once told me," she smiled, thinking of her interesting supper with Captain Barbossa.

"And after?"

"Guadalupe," she spoke quickly.

"The fountain?"

"Aye, that's where it lies," she grunted.

"Never heard of it …" he shrugged his shoulders.

"You need to get out more," she retorted sarcastically.

"Oh, I would, if it weren't for _someone_–" Jordan began.

"Don't test me, boy. I'll have you join James below decks," she interrupted sharply.

"Miss Isabella!" Ragetti shouted, running up the galley stairway followed closely by Pintel. He stumbled, balancing a large mug of yellow liquid in his hand as he halted to a stop in front of her.

"I've got something for you!" He handed the mug to her, beaming with a joyful smile. "It's good to see ya up," he confirmed, warmly.

"Oi, you said I was to give it to her," interjected Pintel, breathing heavily as he caught up to Ragetti.

"Why would I say that? I made it!" Ragetti protested. "Use yer noggin!" Ragetti stated, pointing a finger to his head.

"I'll show you to use yer noggin' ya damn–" Pintel grunted as he reached for Ragetti's neck.

"Thank you, gents," she interrupted, letting go of Jordan's arm as she smiled brightly at the two men, intervening at the perfect moment.

She looked down at the thick liquid, bringing it up to her face. "What's this?"

"Atol," they both answered simultaneously.

"Which is?" she inquired, taking a hearty smell of it, wrinkling her nose as she felt the strong smell clear her sinuses. "It smells like corn."

"It is corn," Pintel affirmed.

"Mashed corn," Ragetti corrected, fidgeting his fingers.

"What's it for?" she inquired skeptically.

"It's supposed to help ya feel better," Ragetti replied.

"I'm guessing your mum used to make it?"

"Aye, you remembered!" He beamed, looking over at Pintel, poking his shoulder. "She remembered!" he reiterated. "I've been tryin' ta get it to ya for two day, but _someone _kept stealin' it," he stated, rubbing his good eye.

She instinctively looked over at Pintel, accusing him of the crime because, lets face it – Pintel most certainly looked as if he would be guilty of it. She was proved wrong just a moment later.

"I'll have that if you won't be having it," Jack interjected, appearing from behind Jordan unexpectedly.

Jordan leaned into her. "Correction – _we _need to get out more," he stated quietly in Isabella's ear.

"Aye, Tortuga's a definite stop then," she whispered back, turning her attention back to Jack, who possessed a slightly rigid look on his face.

He stood before her, shrewdly peering at Isabella as he inched his way closer to her.

"_Miss_ Isabella," Jack greeted her cordially with an underlying tone of sarcasm.

"_Captain_ Sparrow," she addressed him in an identical tone. It was obvious that two could play that game.

"Up and at 'em already?" he inquired sharply.

"How observant of you Captain Sparrow – are you surprised? You know that I don't stay down for anyone," she retorted, stepping back from his advance.

"Really? Because I would think, darling, that it would depend on _who_ you're staying down for," he smiled deviously, taking a step forward to her, looking down at the mug.

"Mine," she mouthed silently, tucking the mug behind her back – out of Jack's greedy sight, leaving her and Jack inches away from one another in an awkward standstill.

He smiled, knowing that she longed for her hardened expression to become soft and tender in his hands as it did the previous evening. He could feel heat radiating off her of body; his skin felt soft tickling sensations as her breath dawdled on his chest. He lifted a gentle hand to her face, letting his knuckles graze her warm cheek. "Mine," he mouthed back to her, smirking seductively.

He cheeks became hot, turning a light shade of pink at his forwardness. He knew her skin longed for his touch, yet she denied herself the pleasure.

She turned away, inhaling deeply. "Jordan! Below decks," she ordered, slowly backing away. "We have some unfinished business to take care of with James."

Jordan raised his brow at the scene, trying not to smile or express his amusement. He placed a hand firmly on his waist, lending a hand out to Isabella in the effort of escorting her away from the devious Sparrow.

"Ta," Jack whispered, fluttering his fingers as he eyed the length of her body intently, watching her hips slowly saunter away in the distance. He straightened his frockcoat, rounding his shoulders as he cleared his throat.

"Mister Gibbs," Jack yelled over to the helm.

"Aye, Cap'n?" Gibbs replied, cupped a hand over his mouth.

"I believe there's some additional speed that needs to be coaxed from these sails," Jack stated perceptively.

"Aye, aye!" Gibbs hollered back. "Brace the foreyard. Trim those sheets! Tortuga awaits us, gents!"

* * *

_**Two days prior…**_

"_You remember what I said before we left, Sparrow? Arms length of her – this is your final warning," he reminded him sternly before turning to disappear behind the cabin door. _

Jack frantically removed his blood stained shirt in disgust, grimacing at the thick maroon liquid that stuck onto his wrists, encrusting the grooves of his fingerprints. His wiped his hands vigorously against the sleeves of his shirt, tossing it down to the serene ocean between the _Hellride_ and the _Pearl _as he hastened his pace across the rigid gangway.

"Captain Sparrow!" Colin Andrews rushed to catch up with Jack's quickening pace.

Jack ignored his cries; his mind was elsewhere, fixated on one man in particular.

"Captain Sparrow – wait!"

"Colin, I'm going to put this as nicely as possible – will you please shut it! I'm in no mood to deal with another whelp," he yelled out, lifting his arms for balance.

"But Captain –"

Colin's words fell on deaf ears as Jack forcefully pulled opened both of the large, black, French doors of Barbossa's cabin. He stormed over to the old rogue sitting quietly at _his_ chart table.

"What have you done to her you sniveling, pestilent, spineless excuse for a mangy bilge rat?" Jack pulled out his weathered, antique flintlock pistol from his side, pointing its artfully crafted barrel in Barbossa's direction. The pistol's golden and masterfully etched lockplate with wing-feather pattern was now glistening with purpose.

"Those ar' a lot of words yer goin' to regret speakin', Jack," Barbossa spoke gravely, rising from his position at the table. He pulled out his silver, single-barreled flintlock pistol in one quick motion, pointing it at Jack with fiery conviction.

"What are you planning, mate?" Jack inquired maliciously, cocking his pistol.

"I'll be inclined ta be askin' ye the same question, Jack," Barbossa retorted, cocking his pistol in conjunction with Jack.

"You tortured her into telling you where the fountain was, didn't you?"

Barbossa narrowed his eyes in confusion. "I did nothin' of the sort, Jack."

"I found her on _my_ ship, under _your _watch, half-dead and covered in blood. The crew says she was with you last night. Please do explain that Hector," Jack urged.

"Aye, she was safe in me company for most of night," he smiled deviously, noticing that he had struck a painful cord in Jack's heart. "But she left me, early in the morn to return to ye lot," he stated.

"A dishonest man having a go with honesty, aye mate?" Jack muttered sarcastically, taking a step forward to advance upon Barbossa.

"What ar' ya sayin', Jack? Ye know as well as I do that callin' me a liar won't bring her back as much as ye might wish it," Barbossa warned, taking a step forward to Jack, meeting his advance.

"You know you're not immortal anymore, Hector," Jack breathed fiercely, unwavering his stance and his weapon as Barbossa advanced upon him.

"Neither are ye," Barbossa began, licking his yellow teeth as he grinned. "Neither shall we be if she's dead. So, there's really no point in killin' her, now is there?"

"Captain Sparrow, please you must listen to me," Jack spun around to Colin, his dark eyes glaring at the young man, not realizing that he was present in the room.

"Ye've always run away from the barrel of a gun, Jack. What's stopping ya now?" Barbossa pried, noticing Jack's uneasy stance.

"What happened to Isabella was not Barbossa's doing," Colin announced loudly, catching both of the quarreling captain's attention.

"Whose is it then? Come on, let's have it!" Jack retorted irritably, noticing Colin's slight hesitation.

"Isabella is scarred by her own hand – her body does it to her," Colin explained. "We've seen it before," he confirmed.

Jack hung his head, lowering his weapon, feeling defeated. He looked down at his blood encrusted hands, blocking the iridescent sparkle of his rings, remembering the deep laceration that plagued Isabella's chest. He turned his gaze back to Barbossa, who had a very satisfied smile painted on his face behind the barrel of his pistol.

"She's like this – each time?" Jack inquired quietly.

"Sometimes worse," Colin replied gravely.

"Are you certain?" Jack inquired further.

"I wouldn't lie about it, if that's what you mean," Colin affirmed.

Jack licked his teeth, biting the inside of his cheek softly as he began to speak. "Tortuga, then?" Jack muttered quietly to Barbossa with an underlying apologetic tone.

"Aye, Tortuga. I think you'll be needin' it," Barbossa advised, lowering his pistol down from its target, accepting Jack's attempt at an apology.


	19. Tall Tales

**A/N**: This was really a fun chapter to write, so, I really hope you all have fun reading it!  
Just wanted to say thank you to **Nytd** once again for her diligent beta-ing! She didn't even have a mouse! Now that's dedication.**  
**

**A/N 2**: Also, for any of my other dedicated readers I'm working on a small multi-chapter fic entitled, _"Place of Torment." _It's about Jack Sparrow's experiences in the locker. Be on the look out for that coming soon.

But for now, please enjoy this chapter! Reviews are appreciated!

--

**Chapter 19 – Tall Tales**

"So, really, what's so special about this _Tortuga_?" Isabella inquired, slightly slurring her speech as she took another hearty swig of rum from the green glass bottle she gripped lazily in her hand.

The night had aged; she had been awake far too long and drunk far more rum than she had imagined she would in a single evening. Considering the great ordeal she had gone through in the previous nights, she felt that she owed it to herself to just let go of all the commotion for one evening.

She was merry, joyful, and playing cards for most of the evening with a large group of her men, which included Jordan, Brodie, and Murphy. Pintel, Ragetti, Gibbs, Cotton, Marty, Murtogg and Mullroy could not help but also join in. It was their last night aboard the _Hellride _before reaching the port of Tortuga with the morning tide. They were all very merry, indeed.

"I'll wager ya, Miss Isabella," Ragetti began, shuffling a deck of cards in his hands. "A story about Tortuga in exchange for a story 'bout your life – what say you to that?"

"You're on," she declared, confidently.

They played the game of Whist – a trick-taking card game, gambling what they held dearly – the greatest stories of their lives. Ragetti sat at the head of the small, circular table, rocking it each time he rested his elbows upon its damp surface. He placed the stack in front of Isabella, watching her cut the cards with an unsteady hand.

He masterfully dealt thirteen cards to each player, starting with the player to his left, Gibbs, and continuing on clockwise to Pintel then finally dealt Isabella her hand. She had learned how to play the game of Ruff and Honours in England many years ago; they said it's fairly similar, but then again, they were pirates. Two partnerships were formed. Pintel and Ragetti sat across the table from one another, indicating their solid partnership, leaving Gibbs and Isabella as partners.

The last card was turned face up to set the trump suit and then is placed into Ragetti's hand as soon as the Gibbs leads to the first trick.

"Hearts are trump," Ragetti confirmed, dealing himself the remaining thirteen cards.

Gibbs eyed Isabella's expression, yet watched Ragetti's partner Pintel out of the corner of his eye. When all thirteen tricks have been played, the side which won more tricks scored one point for each trick. Although, it was too hard to tell who the true victor was at times – playing with pirates and all.

She sat between Pintel and Ragetti, shielding her cards with her hands while holding the rum bottle tightly between her thighs as she sat. Her eyes were narrowed with concentration, even though she had a hard time seeing the blurred numbers with or without the dark shadows she cast upon them with her fingers. She shifted her eyes between the dark cards before her and then to Gibbs, finding his expressionless demeanor almost uncanny. His eye glistened, speckles of light told her each move to make, each trick to play.

Gibbs looked down at his hand, thirteen cards with a strong suit in clubs and hearts, graced with three kings, two queens and one joker. "Four, uptown, hearts," Gibbs began, setting the tone of the game, biting his lip while he eagerly awaited Pintel's wager.

Pintel smirked, fidgeting his grubby fingers on the ridges of his card. "Four, no trump," he stated, smirking as he studied his one-eyed, co-conspirator, Ragetti.

"Five, uptown, no trump," Isabella stated almost immediately, cutting off Pintel's premature leer. Her hand was graced with a strong suit in clubs, carrying three aces, the other joker and some low cards. It was most certainly not the perfect hand for a five trick wager.

The bid had risen, forcing the dealer to place a bet of equal or greater value. Ragetti looked a bit nervous, biting his finger nail as he looked to his partner in doubt.

"I'll pass," Ragetti muttered.

"What? Pass? What do ya mean 'you'll pass' ya half-brained idiot!" Pintel exclaimed, rising to his feet, spilling his cards on the table for all to see.

Isabella and Gibbs laughed at their victory, winning not only the bid of five tricks, but also the five additional points that came with it for each trick won.

"All right, Ragetti, a story now of your darling Tortuga," Isabella's voice heightened over Pintel's yelling.

"Tell 'em how ya lost yer eye, mate!" Marty interjected from atop a barrel of gunpowder.

"Me eye?" Ragetti placed a hand on his eye patch, running his fingers over the empty eye socket.

"You know, I've always wondered how you lost your eye." Isabella smiled, leaning back on her chair, motioning for Ragetti to remove his patch.

Ragetti removed his patch, crossing his eye as if he were attempting to peer over at the empty socket. "Tortuga, fifteen years ago," Ragetti began.

"I don't want to hear about that!" Murtogg interjected, finding himself amidst a sea of hats and shushing. All eyes and ears were on Ragetti, and the small cavern in his face.

"Contrary to wha' ya might think, Tortuga wasn't always the bud of boisterous merriment," Ragetti spat in Murtogg's direction.

"With the eyes of a wee lad, Tortuga was dauntin'. Couldn't put me finger on it, but somethin' wasn't quite right," Ragetti explained.

"Tortuga was a small port, still lively with all sorts of sailors and merchants – not a pirate to be found. Infection had spread through the town – ya know from all those men goin' to-and-fro from island to island. I blame it on the tarts, personally, for sleepin' with the lot of 'em," Ragetti confirmed, crossing his arms in disapproval.

"You would have slept with 'em too," Marty stated, cupping his hands around his mouth.

"_Rawk_, shiver me timbers," stated Cotton's parrot at the opportune moment.

"Who's tellin' the story 'ere?" Ragetti argued, looking at the menacing parrot. "I'm getting to it," he smiled.

"There was this one Jezebel, who had 'er eye on me all night – can't blame her," he said, confidently, sticking his nose in the air as he adjusted his shirt collar.

"She must 'ave been blind," retorted Pintel, laughing.

"Or cross-eyed," shouted Marty.

"Shush! I really want to hear this story, gents!" Isabella stated, lifting a finger to her lips at the two men. "Master Ragetti, please continue."

"I had her and she was willin'," he stated, hearing a few snickers in the background. "And I was as ready as I could be – bein' inexperienced and all. Now, there comes a time in every man's life where decisions have to be made…" Ragetti began.

"I suppose you made the wrong decision," Isabella interjected.

"Aye, I sure did."

"What happened?" Isabella inquired.

"Well, as we were about to … you know, get on with it – I saw these spots in her … area," he explained, attempting to used a bit of digression in front of the lady.

"I thought she had one of those infectious diseases, you know. So, I did what came natural…"

"Ya ran like a sissy?" Pintel inquired, condescendingly.

"As fast as I could ta the other side of the room," Ragetti stated, gesturing his arms in demonstration.

"Turns out it was jus' a mole," he shrugged. "Boy, did she let me have it – and not in a good way."

"She threw a pot at me face and when it shattered a piece o' it went through me eye," he explained gravely.

"How the hell did you mistake a mole for an infection?" Isabella questioned.

"I'm tellin' ya that was no ordinary mole! I was just a lad and with all those diseases goin' 'round, I couldn't be too sure. But now, I have to go around an' say that I lost me bloody eye to a damned potted plant."

The room erupted with an uproar of laughter, their echoes emanated throughout the enter deck making it seem as though Ragetti had more of an audience there really was.

"I know that a bargain is a bargain and all but, would ya mind sheddin' some light on yer existence, Miss?" Ragetti inquired sweetly.

She couldn't resist the charm of a sweet pirate. "What is it what you want to know about me, gents?"

Ragetti thought for a moment, bringing a hand to his coarse beard. "How exactly did ya land yerself in jail?"

"Jail? Why would you want to hear about that?" Isabella smiled, remembering how she wasn't herself so long ago; her motives driven not by the passion for her cause, but from the anger that dwelled within her.

The men were attentive, gazing at her with quizzical eyes. Jordan and Moore, who had both heard this particular story hundreds of times, sat with their backs against two barrels, looking as if they were in need of a nap.

"All right, fine. I don't know why you want to know about it – it really was stupid, if you ask me," she warned, raising her brow, looking for any objections in the hopes that her two lieutenants might chime in a word or two.

"Many, many years ago, I was living in a small town in England, several miles outside of London, taking refuge in a room above an old tavern, working as a glass painter…"

"Glass painter?" Pintel inquired with a tone of bewilderment.

"Aye, a bloody glass painter – do you have a problem with that?" she eyed Pintel as he nodded feverishly.

"Now, as you can imagine, there's not much in patronage for glass painting in England unless you were Roman Catholic, in which you would have been hung or burned for continuing to practice the old faith. Oh, and I wasn't very good at it," she went on taking another swig of rum from her bottle. "I made enough to pay my keep and sparsely buy some food here and there."

"One bleak afternoon, a large crowd had gathered outside our tavern, they seemed to have been surrounding several horse drawn carriages. It was out of the ordinary, seeing our small little town to be in such an uproar over a couple of carriages. The barkeep informed me when I came down from my room that, Henry de Montfort, son of Simon de Montfort – the sixth Earl of Leicester, might I add – was, in fact, passing through to seek counsel with the King in London."

"_Finally the earl has come to save our people from the king's tyranny!" exclaimed the elderly barkeep, Nigel. He slowly wiped the countertops with a yellowish rag. "They're planning a revolt against London – one that will restore the good faith and the old ways of England before this blasphemous reform," he went on. _

_She sat before him, parting her legs as she drummed her fingers on the slick wood of the bar stool. She knew nothing of England, the King's royal court or the 'good faith.' England had always been a battleground of countless religious beliefs from Roman Catholics to Papists and even Protestants – to each his own battle. _

She remembered Henry extremely well; his light blond hair glistening as his dark silhouette entered the darkly lit barroom. Henry wore a white bliaut along with an outer tunic of emerald green that reached down to his knees, fastened at the waist with a large, brown belt. He was adorned with a dark brown surcoat which bore his family's coat of arms, identifying him as a man of high status, a man of the Montfort lineage. A regular barroom hero; he was, in her eyes.

"He was a rich man of many estates, son of a princess and quite a handsome man as well," she smirked. "I caught a short glimpse of him as he sat down at our bar – he was stoic and poised; radiating wealth and taste like no other. Don't know what he was doing in that dump in the first place. He looked out of place amongst broken bar stools and unworthy common folk."

"Said he was looking for a hand to haul supplies he needed to purchase for the King. Willing to pay them for their services, he said. So, I eagerly volunteered, seeing that I wasn't getting paid in the ways of a glass painter."

"He looked at me for a moment, studying my stature in a very condescending manner – just like all those other bloody English royals do whenever they see a woman willing to do a man's dirty work."

"He asked me for my name …" she delayed. "I didn't know what to tell him, my god-given name was unconventional, cursed and cause for suspicion."

"_My name …" she paused for a moment, looking around the room for inspiration. Her eyes darted along the bare tavern walls, finally arriving at a small window, locking onto a small girl playing outside. Her arms were held out and her hands fluttering in the wind. She thought of how beautiful she was. "My name is Bella – Isabella … I'm of … Spanish decent," she corrected herself, slightly bowing to show respect. _

_He raised a hand to her face, brushing her cheek with the back of his hand. "You are not a delicate pearl imprisoned in a coarse and unforgiving shell. What is a youthful pearl such as yourself doing in the dirt and not upon a plinth?" he inquired gently, taking heed in furthering his actions. _

"He was a proper man by taking me in, feeding me, and letting me bathe. He also gave me a set of presentable clothing seeing that I was now his property." She laughed at the thought.

"Several months had passed; London had come and gone and the winter months approached with such a fury that it was imperative that we return to Henry's estate in Leicester. His estate was extraordinary but I kept to myself most of the time, doing the work that was given to me in order to survive and continue my stay. I took to the library each evening, sometimes reading but most of the time just playing with the beautifully made swords that hung above his desk."

_She studied the sword closely; it's use of nonlinear distal taper and a deep and well defined fuller. She held it confidently in her hand, listening to the sound of the sharp blade cutting through dense English air. She smiled; it was like music to her ears. "Hmph, not so bad," she confirmed. _

"He caught me one night, as Lieutenant Jordan might tell you – I have no stealth at all." She looked over at her lieutenant, smiling playfully.

"Without a doubt," he replied, nudging Moore with his elbow, causing him to smile as well.

"She's absolutely hopeless," Moore elaborated, grazing his amber beard.

"He didn't believe that I knew how to use a sword, so I had to prove him wrong, didn't I?" she giggled, licking the rim of her bottle gingerly.

"Of course, because you know – that's not suspicious at all," Jordan replied.

"Anyway," she emphasized, getting back on track with her tale. "I fought him, vigorously, for what seemed like hours. I was a bit sloppy due to the fact that I had put down my sword many years prior to that day. I gave him many opportunities to take the advantage. If it were a real fight I probably would have been done for."

"He nicked me a bit on my cheek with the tip of his sword, not a deep cut but one that would have bled pretty heavily for a normal person," she stated, brushing her cheek lightly with her finger tips.

"He saw my wound heal before his eyes and as you might imagine he didn't take it well," she said seriously.

"_You're a witch – a demon," he spoke softly, his voice stuttering at the word 'demon.' His blue eyes pierced her skin as he drew back from her. _

"He was spooked – called his guards on me and threw me in the furthest prison he could call to mind. He really didn't know what else to do with me," she sighed, shrugging her shoulders.

"I 'ave a question," Ragetti began, raising his hand.

"What is it?"

"Well … did ya bed him?"

"Hey, that was my question!" Jordan interjected, rising to his feet.

The men broke out in laughter. Even Moore, in his stern demeanor, found a few snickers dancing upon his lip. Isabella couldn't help but join in her inebriated state.

"Men…" she spoke softly, placing a hand on her forehead while she shook her head. "Is that all you lot think about?"

"Oi, ya didn't answer my question," Ragetti asserted.

"Well, if it helps you sleep better at night, gentlemen – I did not," she affirmed, crossing her arms. "Henry was a noble man, one that did not act on selfish impulse. He was a loyal man, set on marrying one of his own kin to ensure his fortune remained within his family. It was a smart move at the time."

The all of the men cringed, recoiling at the thought of marrying one of their own relatives. Pintel looked over at Ragetti and shuddered.

Ragetti let out a disgusted tongue. "That's bloody awful," Pintel asserted.

"Aye, couldn't agree with you more, but that's how business was done," she confirmed.

"Miss, what ever happened to the lad after this was all said and done?" inquired Gibbs, placing his elbows on the table, anxious to hear her answer.

"I saw him, one last time, several months after he threw me to those Scottish dogs. He came to visit me, which caught me by surprise. He asked me to place a spell on the king – a blatant act of treason. He was a desperate man," she nodded in disapproval. "He did not want to die and lose his lands for his actions in the great revolt against the King that he, himself, and the barons planned against the king."

"_Set me free and I shall kill the King," she whispered, gripping her hands upon the cold steel bars. "I have no qualms with killing a man who intends on killing hundreds."_

"_Hush, woman."_

"_Do not call me that, do not let them hear that I am a woman," she urged, scanning the room of sleeping prisoners._

"_You must not let them hear your words of treason." _

"_Your words of treason are equal to mine. You plan revolts, yet fear the blood that stains your 'elegant' hands. What else can they do to me that I have not already suffered?"_

_He bit his lip, unable to answer._

"_Free me," she hissed, feeling a part of her longing to be released. _

"_I cannot free you; I have simply come in need of your witchcraft," he stated, regaining his composure. _

"_I am no witch, so, I cannot help you," she whispered, relinquishing her grip on the bars, turning away from him to return to her cold bunk. He lingered for a moment before letting out a disgruntled noise from deep within his throat, making a quick exit in defeat._

"That's all there was to it – I told you it was stupid. I really shouldn't have fought him; it probably would have saved me a lot of trouble in the long run."

"Probably would 'ave neva met us, if ya hadn't," Ragetti observed.

"Aye, Ragetti. That's the truth of it," she smiled, pointing her finger in his direction. "Life has a funny way of working sometimes."

"I reckon I'm in need of a good ol' speck of rum," Gibbs confirmed.

"Amen to that!" Ragetti agreed. "I'll go peak about the hold, see if we've got any left – if all ya mongrels haven't drunk it up already."

He stood from the table, allowing Cotton to take his place as Pintel's partner for the next hand of Whist. Isabella stood as well, just moments after Ragetti's leave in the effort to accompany the young pirate in his quest for rum. Gibbs stood as well, placing a hand on Isabella's shoulder before she could disappear.

"Miss Isabella, the essence of Tortuga is er … addictive. All the men are aware of that, especially Jack and Barbossa. Hell, some even spend the rest of their days on that spit of land, floating in a sea of vices till the day they pass on. With that bein' said I can't help but worry of your safety there … being a woman an' all."

"You shouldn't worry about me," she assured him instantly, not understanding his full intent.

"Aye, I'm aware of yer ability to fight back. But what I'm saying is it's been known that the women who reside on that particular island are er … promiscuous by nature, causin' themselves a bit o' trouble and lettin' that trouble pass on to those even not in that sort of profession."

"How do you know I'm not promiscuous by nature?" she inquired, rhetorically, in a playful manner.

"Miss, I don't believe that yer promiscuous in _that_ sort of way," Gibbs explained, raising his brow in hope that she would understand.

"Ah, I see," Isabella stated, placing a hand on her chin. "What say you to this, I shall not go to Tortuga."

Gibbs' eyes grew puzzled.

"Henry de Montfort will go to Tortuga in light of my absence …" she furthered.

Gibbs smiled, nodding his head at her plan. "Aye, I believe Henry might like Tortuga, Miss."

"I think he might enjoy Tortuga a little too much," she thought out loud. "I'm eager to see what he thinks in the morn. But now, if you excuse me, I must go catch that one-eyed scoundrel."

"Master Ragetti," she yelled, making her way past Gibbs to the stairway in attempts to pull Ragetti aside before he could make his way down.

"Aye, Miss?" He answered, his voice echoing throughout the stairway.

"The truth is a fine thing, is it not?" she inquired.

"Aye, Miss, it is," he nodded, rather nervously.

"Is your tale entirely true? Is that really how you lost your eye?" she whispered, looking back up the stairs.

Ragetti looked as well, to find anyone who might be eavesdropping on their conversation. He simply shook his head 'no' after a moment.

"I had an inkling that, that might be the case," she spoke softly. "What really happened, if you don't mind me asking? I can't really imagine a woman with that great of aim to hit your eye and not leave another scar in sight, especially from a ceramic pot, no less. No more tall tales," she warned.

Ragetti paused for a moment, unsure of how to phrase his next statement. He mustered out what he could, to the best of his ability. "Me mum was a good mum and all. Did 'er best to provide fo' me and me siblings," he confirmed. "She was a woman of promiscuity…" he continued, quietly. "She owed some men a large sum of money. I guess they thought I would be a good way of getting' ta her."

Isabella nodded her head, licking her teeth behind her lip. She needed no further explanation. "You've suffered greatly in light of your mum's attempt to help you. I'm sorry my friend," she stated, placing a head on his shoulder.

Ragetti beamed. "Oh no, it's alright Miss. I think I look quite dashing without it. Besides, the patch makes me look more piratey," he reassured.

"Aye, so it does," she smiled. For the first time she wished she could be more like him, even with all his faults. "Your secret's safe with me. Now, I'll get the rum; you go back and win a game in my honor."

"All righ'! Another game, gents?" Ragetti yelled as he ran back up the stairs. "I'll wager another tale if yer willin' ta match it," he announced, smacking his hand down on the table several times, calling the men to order. Marty took his spot in front of Gibbs, indicating his partnership and the game continued on without her.

--

Jack sat in humble silence within the confines of his cabin, hovering with calipers above a large map, analyzing their journey's trajectory. He looks over at the hourglass beside him, flipping it over with two fingers as he leaned back to watch the small granules of sand pour out onto the other side.

Time – an entity that seemed so out of reach, so incomprehensible. Time always seemed to be running out as the days progressed. The term was unfathomable, out of reach out and out of touch. Yet, time could easily reach out and touch him without hesitation. Each day his bones grew tired and his eyes weary, accented with dark and defined lines between his heavy lids. He let his thoughts wander as if he were mesmerized by the sand's representation. Setting down the calipers, Jack made himself comfortable in his seat, pulling his hat over his eyes for a moment of rest.

A small disturbance at his cabin door startled him from his sleepy state. He opened his heavy lids, parting his lips slightly as the knocking progressed.

"Jack?" a small voice called out, opening the door before he could answer.

"Jack, where is your kohl?" Isabella inquired, staggering into his cabin.

"I might be inclined to tell you of its location if you'd be so kind to inform me of what you'll be needing it for," Jack retorted, disturbed by her intrusion. He leaned back into his chair as he lifted his boots upon the tabletop.

"Well, some of the men – one in particular, have expressed their concern in seeing me waltz about the streets of Tortuga without any discretionary caution for my livelihood."

"That is very fine piece of advice, tart – one that shouldn't be taken so lightly. But now, how do you plan on asserting said 'caution?'" Jack inquired further.

"I am to become someone I'm not," she stated, beginning to shift through the drawers of Jack's desk. "A man named Henry."

"Ah! A disguise – how clever, come up with that all by your lonesome?"

"Why, yes I did, Captain Sparrow. I come up with brilliant ideas all the time," she argued.

"I'm certain that you do, so I will let you devise with a way in which you'll be retrieving my kohl without my assistance."

"Jack!"

"Oi, you asked for it!"

She calmed herself for a moment, beginning to smile as she remembered Jack's greatest weakness. "Jack, please," she spoke softly, batting her lashes and wetting her lips in an act of persuasion.

"Oh, bloody hell woman, you don't have to look at me like that," he spat, reaching into one of his pockets to retrieve the small, black cylindrical object, gently tossing it to her.

"Thank you," she smiled, sitting down in the chair beside him, taking the kohl between her fingers, beginning to draw the mustache above her lip.

Jack watched in amused bewilderment, bringing an elegant hand to his chin, looking on as she struggled to draw her lines straight. She quickly became frustrated, licking her left palm and wetting her cheeks forcefully to erase the crooked lines she had created.

"In need of some assistance?" he mused.

"No, I don't need your help!"

"Oh, shut it. Give me that. You don't know when to give up, do you?" he declared, grabbing the kohl from her fingers. He motioned for her to come closer, placing the kohl between his fingers. He smiled, realizing the distance between them and began drawing a curled, French mustache mimicking the one of his fellow pirate lord, Capitaine Chevalle.

She felt the kohl curl upon her cheek. "What the hell am I – A bloody Frenchmen? Jack, are you taking this seriously?" She nudged his chest, letting her palm linger for just a moment.

"Love, you're asking me to draw on your face, you know you can't bloody well see and with the way you've been treating me – I thought it was only fair," Jack countered, chuckling to himself as he dipped a small rag in his rum, wiping away the long, French mustache.

"Such a damn waste of good rum," he confirmed, smiling mischievously. "You know, that's the last bottle in our stocks."

"I'm surprised you're not savoring every last drop," she retorted, softly.

"Aye, you've got a point there, darling," he whispered, lifting a hand to her face, guiding her close to him. He let his nose wander above the supple, spicy skin on her cheeks, breathing in the tantalizing aroma. He licked his lips gingerly, letting his tongue explore her cheek's savory surface, retrieving each drop of 'wasted' rum. He leaned back letting her body loiter in a mist of drunken passion and ill hidden emotions.

"You know, I've never kissed a woman named Henry before, let alone one with half a mustache," Jack teased, going back to his work, lightly adding a little more detail, eying her satin lips intently.

"I'm guessing that you wouldn't start now," she reasoned.

"I'm in the market for non-Henrys, as it were," he replied, darkening the lines above her lip.

"How would you know? You might enjoy it," she shrugged, raising her brow.

"I'm quite all right, darling," he teased.

"I was always under the impression that you've kissed much worse," she retorted after a moment, attempting to regain her composure. "Now, what does a simple man like me have to do in order to grow a beard like this?" she inquired, using her finest English accent as she tugged on Jack's braided beard tenderly.

"You'll be needing to grow a lot more than that," he spoke, softly with a slight smirk, his words smooth as silk and as sly as a feline.

"I'm sure I won't be needing to do much growing," she replied, playfully, mimicking his speech.

"Sticks 'n' stones, love," he smiled, wiping a small, misplaced line from her cheek with his thumb.

She scanned his lean forearms as he gently worked his artistry on her face. She sighed softly, feeling his breath on her skin; trying so hard not to move in her inebriated state as her artiste began to add in small specs of detail. She let her eyes linger upon his body, probing and discovering the small details of Jack's life as they were depicted on his skin, like one of his many charts. Her eyes landed on the image of a free-spirited sparrow flying high above a tumultuous sea, the sun beaming in the distant horizon. Such a beautiful image captured upon the sun-kissed skin of a maverick.

"I'd like to get another tattoo once we make port," Isabella announced, suddenly.

"Is that so?" he inquired, motioning for her to stretch her top lip over her teeth so he could finish off the rest of her mustache.

"I'd like to have a beautiful, red phoenix on my back," she explained.

"A phoenix? Are you certain?"

"Aye, a really big one." She held out her arms to express the phoenix's grandiose.

"A phoenix is a strong symbol, a depiction of not only life but rebirth and renewal, redefining oneself, so to speak. Do you intend on starting anew, darling?" Jack inquired, curiously.

"It is said that when a phoenix anticipates the end of its life, Jack, it builds a nest of cinnamon twigs. Once it has finished, it then ignites the nest and itself along with it," she explained. "It is only after being burned down into ashes that a new, young Phoenix can rise."

"A wise choice," Jack smiled, admiring her knowledge of the noble beast, along with the ability to articulate her own self realizations. "I know a place where you can acquire such a piece. It might take all day and cost a pretty penny, but it's worth it," he stated, hooking a finger beneath her jaw, commencing the work on 'Henry's beard.'

"We'll be arriving at Tortuga within a few hours. I can have Captain Barbossa escort you – er, Henry," he corrected.

"Why can't you take me, Jack?" she asked, pouting her lips.

"I've got some business to attend to; Captain's duties and what have you." He waved off her question.

Jack began to patch up the last piece of her beard, leaning back to inspect his work, nodding in approval. "Mhm, I believe that'll do it."

"Is it convincing?"

"As convincing as drawn-on facial hair can get," he commented, studying her for appearance for a moment. "You need something," he confirmed, taking his hat off his head and placing it upon hers.

"Your hat?" she curled her lip in perplexity.

"Aye, takes away from that." He gestured to her face. "Give it back when you're done with your little … charade," he quickly warned.

"If I'm feeling generous," she retorted, stretching as she yawned.

"Don't fall to the temptations of sleep just yet, dearie. Dawn is approaching fast, might as well be ready for it when it comes," he advised, rising from his chair to straighten his frock coat.

She rubbed the fatigue from her eyes roughly with her knuckles, paying mind to where her fingers landed upon her face. Yawning once more, she opened her weary lids to find Jack standing before her, holding out a gracious hand for her to take.

She took it without hesitation, letting him pull her up to her feet. "Help me pull her into port. It'll be your first duty as a helmsman," he stated gently, taking the tone of a subtle request rather than an order.

She nodded her acceptance, letting him lead her out of the cabin and onto the _Hellride's_ glistening quarterdeck. The sun had finally peaked over the horizon, leaving a trail of pink and purple contrasting hues in its passage. The bright, cloudless morning revealed a dark land mass before them. She could finally see why Jack took such pleasure in the morning watch.

"Tortuga," she spoke, feeling the morning breeze trickle through her hair.

"Aye, lass. Tortuga," he smiled.


	20. Wrath of the Phoenix

**A/N**: _**Warning - in this chapter lies character death.**_

I'd like to thank the lovely **Nytd**, my beta-fairy, as I do in every chapter, because she deserves it for being so patient and helpful!

Please enjoy! Reviews are encouraged and much appreciated.

* * *

**Chapter 20 –Wrath of the Phoenix**

"Furl the sails!" Gibbs hollered at Pintel and Ragetti, watching them scurry off, quickly furling the gaskets, using six to eight ropes of about one-third of the sail's depth in length, spaced out at regular intervals along the yard.

"Come on, lads!" Gibbs urged, hurrying Murtogg, Mullroy, Jordan and Moore in the direction of where Pintel and Ragetti were taking in the sails. "Lord knows those two can't do it by themselves! Heave it like your life's dependin' on it!"

Jack stood confidently behind Isabella, hands on her wrists, guiding her as she took the wheel with slight hesitation. "Jack, are you entirely sure I'm ready for this?" she asked, turning to let the back of her head lightly rest on his chest as she searched for his response.

"Captain's orders," he stated simply, continuing to focus on the task at hand. "Besides, this is what you wanted, is it not?" he inquired, softly, letting smirk emerge from the corner of his lips.

He selected his ideal anchoring spot, picking an area that was at least one hundred feet away from all the other ships docked within the small, bustling port. Releasing his grasp on Isabella's wrists for just a moment, he allowed his calm breath to linger on her cheek as he pointed out the area to her, making sure she proceeded toward it as slowly and as steadily as possible.

"You know this probably looks odd," she joked, stretching her lip under her teeth, reminding him of her mustache.

"Aye, but then again, no one's really looking," he cooed in her ear.

Pintel freed the anchor from any bonds that connect it to the roller, making sure to see if the rode would run free when released. Ragetti followed behind quickly, assisting Pintel in making sure that the tail end of the rode was secured to the _Hellride_.

"Turn the bow into the wind," Jack instructed her, indicating the direction she should turn with tap of his finger on her right wrist.

"Oh! Sorry, like this?" she inquired, turning the wheel a little too aggressively.

"Nay, lass," Jack corrected, quickly bringing the wheel back to is prior position. "As gentle as the breeze."

"Drop anchor!" shouted Gibbs, holding out his arms, waving his hands as he illustrated his command to the crew – a trait he picked up from dear ol' Jack.

"Not bad for your first time," Jack affirmed, dropping his arms to his side, looking on as the crew wrapped the rode around the deck cleat.

"Maybe next time I'll be able to do it on my own," she stated confidently, taking in a long breath, proudly inflating her chest.

"You're not quite ready for that, darling. You'll be needing few more years at sea and, perhaps, an instructor with infinite knowledge of her tumultuous temperament in order for that prospect to become a reality," he advised.

"Oh, so, should I ask Barbossa?" she answered, trying to hold her laughter.

Jack quickly stiffened. "Oh! You wound me – so much so that I'm not even sure if I should let you have this," he stated, bringing a hand his belt. She watched him fiddle his fingers around a few hanging items, finally pulling a small, black, velvet pouch from his side. He dangled the pouch above her, jingling its contents.

"What's that?" Isabella inquired, eying the small pouch as Jack waved it in front of her eyes.

"It is a pouch of substance and value, of which the substance and value are only known by yours truly and the person that will be receiving said substance and value," he began, his voice low and mysterious.

"The pouch has no meaning to me if I don't know what's in it," Isabella argued.

"Fair enough. This pouch contains two payments for a Mister John Thomas – a fairly well known resident of Tortuga who so happens to be a talented tattoo artist."

"Two payments?" she reiterated.

"Aye, two payments consisting of mine and yours," he stated, smiling as he counted the payments with his fingers.

"You're going to pay for it?" she asked, quizzically.

"Aye, how else do you plan on getting it?"

"You're Captain Jack Sparrow," she began, noticing Jack's confused look, "you're a pirate, I never thought that you lot actually … paid for things."

"Neither has the thought crossed me mind. But, I'll be willing to pay a pretty penny for the fine arts, not because I'm an enthusiast but, rather, because of my utmost appreciation for anyone who possesses the patience for it," he stated, lifting himself upon his toes for a moment.

"But now, you must ask yourself how much you want that tattoo of yours," he continued to persuade.

"Well, I already know that I truly want it," she confirmed, her tone turning rather soft as Jack leaned in to her.

He took her hand, opening her fingers just enough to place the small pouch within her palm. "And you will not be disappointed, love," he said, showcasing one of his best smiles, before turning away from her to have a word with Mister Gibbs.

She squeezed the pouch tightly in her palm, placing it in her pocket as she turned to face the rail. She peered down as the crew, including some of her men, prepared the vessel to dock. She waved down to a few of them, smiling as they hurried along their duties, finding one in particular that she wanted to stop and talk to, personally.

"Murphy!" she yelled out, noticing the young boy had stopped to look about, checking to see who had called out his name. "Murphy!" she shouted once more, cupping a hand over her mouth while waving the other in the air, making sure that he would see her this time. The young lad of fourteen finally spotted her, looking very excited to see his general on her feet since her last episode - even if she now had a new mustache to tow. He smiled at her, straightening out his dark blue linen shirt to address in a proper manner.

"Murphy, how are you feeling?" Isabella inquired, rushing to the stairs that lead her down to the main deck, smiling at the young man that stood before her at the bottom of the steps.

He lifted his arm to wave to her, letting his oversized sleeves drop to reveal his muscular arm; his deep, brown eyes beaming. "Good morning, General! I'm fairly well today and yourself?"

"Look at your arms! You're growing stronger by the day!" she announced happily, placing her hands on her mouth in awe.

"Aye, just doing my duty," he replied, sucking in his stomach while flexing his bicep in a playful manner.

"And your leg? How is it feeling?"

"It's all right, getting better with time," he assured her, looking down as he stretched out his right leg and flexing his calf.

She smiled, relieved that her young soldier was learning how to prevail over pain. She lowered herself down to the cold wooden boards of the stairs, suddenly feeling lightheaded, instinctively gripping her chest. Another pain began crawling from deep within her, ripping apart her insides with fiery determination. She took in a deep breath from her nose, filling her lungs with pure, sea air before sitting herself down on the steps, resting her head against the rail.

"General, are you alright? You're as white as a sheet!" exclaimed the young Murphy with concern growing in his eyes. He pushed back some of his dark, curled tresses with his palm.

"Aye, I'm doing all right," she lied, smiling, attempting to comfort the young boy. She loosened her tight grasp on her chest for a moment to address him. "Murphy, have you ever felt like you weren't strong enough to face your own demons? Sometimes, I feel that way - like I can't handle all the cards that have been dealt to me in my life. I just don't think I'm strong enough," she stated, narrowing her brow as she tried her best to piece her thoughts together. She placed a hand on her forehead, sighing as she turned to Murphy for his response.

The boy smiled, placing his hand on the rail, carefully walking up the steps to meet with his general at her side. He placed an arm around her shoulder, attempting to give her the much needed comfort that she desired. "General, you know, I look up to you for my strength," he began, proudly, "I know - we know - that you can and will overcome your demons, whatever form they may take or however painful they might be. We continue to have faith in you."

"You think so?" she inquired, unable to help the smile that grew on her lips.

He nodded, happily. "Yes, of course."

She waved her arm, motioning for Murphy to sit down beside her for a moment as Murtogg and Mullroy lowered the gangway.

"Son, do not let this place corrupt your fragile soul. You are much too good. So, only one drink and I advise you to be back early," she urged, taking a motherly tone.

"Aye, be back at sunrise," Jack exclaimed, making his way down the stairs beside them. "And, you can have two drinks - one in honor of dear ol' Jack, all right lad?" he said, smiling as he flashed two fingers in front of the boy's face.

"Jack, you scoundrel! Don't teach him to be like you!" Isabella exclaimed, stretching her arm to push Jack's leg.

"Hush! Or I'll say three in honor of Henry as well," he warned, smirking as he continued his way down the remainder of the steps; his boots emanating a hollow thud on the old wooden planks. "Besides, why wouldn't he want to be like me? Don't you know who I am?"

Isabella raised her brow, smirking at Jack's conceded statement, shaking her head.

"I'm off!" he announced, meandering his way through his crew toward the gangway. "Do not forget, I want all of you mangy vermin back by sunrise! We leave with the morning tide. Try not to cause too much trouble or er ... kill anybody. Please? I already owe these people enough money." Jack quickly made his way down, disappearing from sight within the lively Tortugain crowd.

Murphy bit his lip, turning to Isabella. "So, have we decided on three?"

"Maybe two and a half," she offered.

"And, what if they put water in it?"

"Then, maybe, four – wait, how do you know about that?"

"I know a lot of things..." he half-attempted to explain, bringing his fingers to his mouth, starting to bite his nails nervously.

"It's almost as if you and Jordan lead secret lives," she smirked.

"It runs in the family, I guess," he laughed softly, rising to his feet, pushing back his curls once more. "Do you need help?" he asked, offering his hand to her.

"Nay, I'm fine. But, you can assist me in asking Mister Pintel and Ragetti to accompany me to John Thomas'?" she asked, lifting herself up with one arm on the rail, exhaling the pain from her chest. "Tell them to meet me on the _Pearl_ if they wish to come."

"Right away, General!" He turned beginning to go about his duties but turned back to her before he could disappear. "Oh, General! Try speaking with a lower voice - wouldn't want to seem too obvious!" he advised before immersing himself within a crowd of bustling pirates.

* * *

Tortuga was suffocated beneath the humidity; the large crowd of two-way traffic caused tremendous amounts of commotion getting from one place to another. Perfect conditions for pick-pockets though, they surely weren't going to complain. The city itself was an adventure, a real gem to those who found beauty in the strangest of places. Traveling through the streets hearing pirates talking, singing, dancing, performing on stages, and drinking brought a sort of warm liveliness that Isabella and the rest of the men seemed to have been lacking for quite some time.

Pintel, Ragetti, Barbossa and Isabella weaved their way through the crowd, checking on each other every few moments to make sure that no one was out of sight.

"Who's this 'John Thomas' anyway?" inquired Pintel, skeptically, gaining up to Barbossa as he took the forefront.

"John Thomas be the finest Polynesian tattoo artist in the Caribbean, er so I've heard," Barbossa stated, knowingly. "Never got ink'd by 'im. Unfortunately, we've got nothin' but Sparrow's word on this one."

"Polynesian?" inquired Pintel. "Where the hell is Polynesia?"

Barbossa paused for a moment, rolling his eyes, hastening his pace to catch up with Isabella, who began to walk blindly in front.

"Watch yo'self, lad!" yelled a man as she tried to squeeze herself through the crowd.

"Sorry," Isabella shouted back, waving her apology before bumping into another rather inebriated pirate.

"Oh – sorry!"

"Pirates don't say sorry," Barbossa whispered as he bumped his shoulder into another pirate that was about to bump into the both of them.

"Watch who yer steppin' on, maggot!" he growled through his teeth, looking the scrawny pirate square in the eye while he pushed aside his coat to reveal a beautifully crafted flintlock pistol, fastened to his side.

Isabella nodded in approval. "Ah, I see what you mean. Dually noted," she smiled, pushing Jack's hat, firmly upon her head as she continued to push her way through the crowd.

"Hey! Watch yourself, lad, or you'll regret ever bumping to Henry Mont-- " she began, feeling a grimy hand shoved in front of her mouth and an arm pulling her in through a doorway beside her.

"Don't want ta get into any fights while we're 'ere. Ya heard wha' Cap'n Jack said," Ragetti advised, placing a finger over his lip.

The small tattoo shop's inner walls were plastered, the summer beam and chimney girt were sheathed, and the paneling formerly on the plastered walls was reused in the lean-to. Aged, pale yellow paneling, with four flute pilasters added a special touch to the fireplace wall, decorated with timber lintel which spanned most of the west wall.

The two rooms located on their left and right were filled with antique furniture, ceramics, textiles, toys, paintings and tools from all walks of life. Various trinkets hung low from the ceiling, directing their eyes to a pile of scrolls that looked as if they were tossed carelessly upon the brown floorboards; perhaps, describing the colorful owner of the premises. Yet, the man that stood behind the counter looked as if he had no interest architecture, decorative arts, customs, and human culture at all. Tall and portly, bearded yet clean cut, wearing a shirt of painted-on geometric patterns; Barbossa knew that John Thomas was a character and didn't like the stench of him already.

"We be lookin' for one John Thomas," Barbossa stated, placing his hands on his hips, shifting his weight onto one leg as he eyed the distinctive man.

"Who's askin' fo' 'im?" grunted the man as he continued to clean his tools, paying them no mind.

"We're friends of Jack Sparrow," Isabella quickly answered in the manliest voice she could possibly muster.

"Speak fer yerself," Barbossa muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes.

"Jack Sparrow? Captain Jack bloody Sparrow – that son o' a bitch owes me money!" The man answered, visibly gritting his teeth.

"He told me to give you this," Isabella interjected, taking the pouch out of her pocket, tossing it to him, "said it should cover the artwork and then some."

John Thomas reluctantly opened the pouch after staring at it for a moment, gripping the pouch to feel its contents. Two grubby fingers invaded the opening of the pouch, stretching it open enough for John Thomas to carefully study the contents before nodding his satisfaction. "What's yo' name, lad?"

"Henry – Henry Montfort…" she answered, lowering Jack's hat over her eyes.

"Henry … hmph," he began, "a good, strong name fer a small lad like yo'self. John Thomas - at yer service - what exactly is it that you'll be wantin', Henry?"

"A phoenix - a large, red one, spanning of my waist till my mid back," Isabella explained, motioning her arms to illustrate the phoenix's position on her back.

"Don't get asked fer those 'round 'ere too of'en," John Thomas stated, breathing a small chuckle as he raised his brow at the request.

"There's a first time for everything, aye, Mister Thomas?" she answered, smiling.

"Aye, that's the truth of it. Ya know, lad, the word 'tattoo' itself came from the ancient Polynesian language, meanin' 'ta make a mark'." He snorted, taking out a long, black cloth bag of tools from behind the counter as he eyed the small black tattoo on Henry's wrist. "Polynesian peoples went so far as to believe that a person's spiritual power is displayed through their tattoo," he rambled.

John Thomas unraveled the cloth, partitioning several of his tools carefully. Within the cloth bag laid a simple rake-like tool with needles made of green turtle shell attached to wooden handle. Before he could begin the tattoo, the major sections of the phoenix needed to be outlined for precision.

"Boy, take off yer shirt."

"My shirt?" she inquired, plainly.

"Don't expect me to tattoo ya on top of it, do ya?" he shot back.

Isabella panicked, lifting her shirt halfway, showing John Thomas the edge of her dressings. "Mister Thomas, I think it's better if I keep it on. Battle scar on my chest might be too gruesome for you all to see."

"Hmph," he grunted. "I'll be needin' ta cut the dressin's either way," he declared, getting quite annoyed with all of Isabella's demands. "Ya can always redress it later. Now, sit down n' stay put."

John Thomas gently lifted the linen shirt with two fingers from its hem, securing it upon her shoulders, knowing that the pulsation of the mallet might cause it to slide down and get in the way once he had commenced the tattoo. He absolutely detested being disturbed during his work, especially during a piece that took countless hours of precision and focus on his behalf. With a small dagger from his pocket, he quickly cut Isabella's dressings with a firm and precise hand, dropping them to the floor.

"Lost quite o' bit o' blood there, lad," John Thomas observed, dropping the last piece of sanguine encrusted fabric to the floor.

"Aye," she nodded, being careful to not speak as much as she normally would. She took a deep breath, slowly exhaling in relief when she saw John Thomas nod his head, accepting the fact that, perhaps, Henry was not much of a conversationalist.

"I'll be needin' a volunteer…" John Thomas stated, clearing his throat as shifting his stern gaze between Barbossa, Pintel and Ragetti.

"Fer what?" Pintel inquired, curling his lip.

"I need fer ya to stretch the skin since me 'ands are full," he stated simply, holding up the rake and the mallet. "Oh, an' thanks fer volunteerin'," he continued with a hearty laugh.

"Why do I got ta do it? I could be knee deep in saucy wenches by now!" he lamented in Barbossa's direction, pounding his thigh with his fist.

"Master Pintel, I'll be assurin' ya that yer not missin' out on too much of the action. 'Sides, half of those 'saucy wenches' yer speakin' of won't be sauced enough to offer ye pleasurable company till the early morn," Barbossa joked, playfully slapping Pintel in the shoulder as Ragetti and Isabella chuckled under the palms of their hands.

Pintel managed his way over to Isabella's side, stepping over various scrolls of artwork and loose tattooing tools that were dispersed haphazardly along the floor. Isabella squirmed a bit, feeling Pintel's cold, clammy hands being positioned on her lower back by John Thomas, instructing him to stretch out her skin until he nodded his approval.

"Cold, Henry?"

"Aye," she responded, hoarsely, feeling the intricate outline being drawn along the length of her back. She fidgeted her leg, anticipating the pain before the artist even took the tools in his hands.

"Be forewarned, if the needles penetrate too deeply, the pigment'll mix with body fluid and cause the color to spread. But, if the pigment is not placed deep enough, it'll surely fade and come out prematurely as yer new skin emerges. So, try not to squirm, Henry, fer it'll be hurtin' ye more than ye might think," Barbossa advised.

"Now, as fer the pain – I think I've got me own idea of 'ow to soothe it," Barbossa continued, smiling. "I shall return," he stated, turning his attention to Ragetti. "Master Ragetti, stay with Henry 'till my arrival."

"Aye, sir," Ragetti nodded.

John Thomas dipped the needles in dark, red ink, letting them soak for a few moments. "Brace yo'self, boy," he cautioned to Isabella, placing the needles a centimeter above the outline. She braced herself on the back of the chair, gripping her fingers tightly, anticipating the sharp needles piercing her skin. With a swift but forceful tap with his mallet, he applied the ink through a series of short taps against the top of the rake, using the other wooden tool to push the needles into her skin. The journey of creating this symbol of rebirth had begun.

She sealed her eyes tightly, clenching her teeth as the needles stung and prodded her skin. She muffled her small cries of pain as the rake dug deeper into her back, biting onto her wrist for the several hours into the tattoo until her back began to emanate a prickling, numb sensation. Ragetti sat patiently in front of her in his chair, fiddling with his thumbs for a moment to keep himself busy. He looked down at his feet, licking his sullied fingers to clean a scuff mark off his shoe.

"Ragetti," she whispered in her normal voice.

He looked up from his work, drawing his chair closer. "Aye, Miss?"

"Do you know where Jack has gone off to?" she inquired, attempting to smile through the pain of needles hammered into her skin, yet her thoughts still seemed to shift toward Jack. She rested her chin upon the coarse, wooden back of her chair as Ragetti leaned into their conversation.

"Sorry, Miss, he was mum as to where he would be headin' off to, as he always is, of course," Ragetti sighed, shrugging his shoulders.

"Ah, a man of many secrets, he is!" she concluded, her curious eyes growing as wide as her smile.

"Not really. He's a lot more straight forward than ya might think," Ragetti divulged, adjusting his patch. "I think that's why everyone always compares Jack to the sea. The sea becomes somewhat predictable if ya 'ave sailed the same waters fer long enough. Jack's more like a ship – like the _Black Pearl_, if ya ask me," Ragetti began, quite mysteriously.

"You think so, aye? I've always thought of him to be as untamable as the sea itself."

_  
_"Aye, but you've only covered the surface, really. His actions make 'im appear like the sea, in a way, but his in his mind, he's like a ship. Jack's got his set priorities, just like a ship would 'ave some sort of trajectory, er map, of some sort that leads to the possibility of discovering new land or valuable pieces of wealth. But rather than pouncin' on at all at once, like the sea probably would – being untamable and all – a ship circles about, all crafty-like, until the opportune moment … like so," Ragetti explained, moving his fingers in a circular manner, following it with his good eye.

She nodded her head in agreement, shifting her gaze to the floor. She tried not to let Ragetti catch onto the fact that she was internally conflicted due to his explanation. Perhaps, not confused in her mind but, rather, caught her off guard, if anything. If Ragetti's statement were, in fact, true then how would she truly know if Jack could possibly have another scheme in the works or if his acts were genuine? She wouldn't really know till the scheme had come to an end.

"Does he ever deviate?" she asked, suddenly.

"Deviate?"

"Aye, deviate from the planned course. You know, like, move in a different direction if he finds that the current one is not all that it seemed to be?"

"Neva seen it meself, he's had some stoppin' points. Wasn't present at the time, o' course, but that's what I 'ear."

"Oh, I see."

"So, when did you get that?" he inquired, quickly changing the focus to the small sun and moon tattoo on her wrist, sparing them both the awkwardness of finishing the previous conversation.

"Oh, that was a long time ago," she replied, smiling again. "Did it myself, after my brother died in Rome, in his memory. You know, him and I were named after the moon and the sun."

"How'd ya do it?" he inquired, looking down at his own pale wrist, tracing his veins with his fingers for a moment, trying to imagine the kind of pain must have come from the little symbol.

"Same way Mister Thomas here is doing mine – just without the hammering. More like cutting in the design and letting the color from berries flood the wound. When I'd get tired, I'd stop and start again the next day. They said it was common way of doing it amongst slaves, as it were." She shrugged her shoulder.

"Hold still!" urged John Thomas, as he patiently waited for Henry to bring his squirming to an end so he could continue his work. He hammered away at the rake for a few moments, watching a strange occurrence happening upon his client's skin. The blood that usually appeared when the rake punctured the first few layers of skin seemed to disappear just as fast as it came. He continued on uncertain, perhaps, that it was an illusion caused by his red ink? Yet, he continued to watch, skeptically as the skin beneath the sharp needles healed before his eyes.

He narrowed his brow, cleaning one of the long, sharp needles with his rag and letting it hover over a blank area of his canvas. With a quick and precise hand he swiped the needle over the skin, causing it to rip open, watching as the blood cascaded out then quickly disappear as if it were crawling back into the incision.

He backed away quickly, stumbling over his chair. "Wha' are ya, lad?"

"What?" Isabella turned to the bewildered man, rising to her feet as she saw him stumble.

"The spirit that's within ya … it's some kind o' demon!" John Thomas exclaimed, gulping as grasped the pistol that hung from his side, aiming it at Isabella.

"John Thomas, you are mistaken, I am no demon. I assure you, we can clear this whole mess up if you'll just let me explain," Isabella pleaded, holding her arms up to the belligerent man.

"No demons in my shop … ya will not 'ave me soul, demon! 'Old still and I'll free ya," he continued, madly, cocking his pistol eagerly with his thumb. Beads of sweat began to pour down his face from a mixture of heat and anticipation. He would not let this masqueraded demon escape from the justice of God.

Without warning, a trigger was pulled, from where – they did not know at the time, but the sound of the gunshot echoed within the walls of the small shop accompanied by the eerie thud of John Thomas' body as it plummeted down upon the floorboards.

"Criminy!" Pintel exclaimed, looking over at Ragetti and Isabella. All three backed away from the scene, watching his body twitch it's final sparks of life as his blood poured out to form a dark puddle beneath him. The three turned their attention to the door where the gunshot seemed to stem from, discovering a dark, imposing silhouette that stood within the doorframe, still holding a pistol in hand with the conviction of the grim reaper himself.

"Blaggard," said Barbossa, blowing smoke from the heated barrel, placing it back on his side as he walked into the room, slamming a bottle down onto the counter.

"Wha – What was that? That sound," Isabella stammered, pointing at weapon at Barbossa's waist.

"Is he dead?" asked Ragetti, ignoring Isabella's inquiry as looking over at Pintel as he kicked John Thomas shoulder. "That's – that's not good!" Ragetti affirmed, pointing his finger at the body. "The Cap'n said he didn't want us to kill no one!"

"Aye, dead as it gets," Barbossa observed, stepping over the pool of blood to grab the pouch that Isabella handed to him earlier. Untying the small rope that held the opening tightly shut, taking out a piece of its jingling contents – a small, baby turtle shell.

"That's not money or treasure! Wha' could he possibly want wit' those?" Pintel inquired, angrily.

"Expensive buggers, these little things ar'," Barbossa began. "Especially when ya make yer livin' with 'em."

"I've never seen anything like that … you killed him instantly, without a sword. How?" Isabella stated, still looking down at the body as if she were staring at the angel of death itself.

"I'll explain it ta ya later, lass. I believe we've overstayed our welcome," he stated hastily, dropping the shell back into the pouch and into his pocket while adjusting his large black hat.

"Ya, time to go!" Ragetti reiterated, nodding feverishly.

"I think I need a drink," Isabella stated through heavy breaths, placing her fingers on her lips, taking a step back from Barbossa.

"Here, thought it migh' ease th' pain," Barbossa stated, drearily, handing her a bottle of dark amber liquid from the counter.

She stared at the bottle for a moment, shifting her gaze between it and the still body of John Thomas, whose blood continued to trickle along the cracks of the floorboards, slithering toward her, accusingly. It mocked her as it shifted in her direction, causing her to take a step back, sitting herself down on her chair. She held the bottle's neck firmly between her fingers, bringing it up to her nose, taking a deep breath as she lifted her legs onto the chair. "I hope this is strong enough."

"Don't really know fer sure, lass. Bottle's not labeled – could be drinkin' goat piss fer all I know."

"Thank you, Hector. That's exactly what I needed to hear," she retorted, sarcastically, letting her eyes waver from the sight of John Thomas' lifeless corpse for only a moment to take a long, nervous swig from the glass bottle. No matter what the content of that bottle might have been, the alcohol would certainly delay the conjuring of bitter memories of her past. It was the first time she had seen the blood of a man slain before her eyes since prison.

"_She's seen many a man die but still fears the sight of death_," Barbossa thought to himself as he studied her composure. "_Perhaps, it is not 'er soul that's strong enough to take another life_ _but the soul of another_ _who wishes it upon 'er to do so._"

* * *

Jack Sparrow was enticed by _Willie's Century Pawn Shop_ windows, which were full of finely polished shoe buckles along with profitable and saleable jewelry, with a couple of small rooms set aside for art and antiques. Fortunately, the pawnshops on Tortuga were never manned by Jews or Jesuits, which would hardly give you a dime for anything you might want to trade. Nay, this particular shop was owned by an old friend of Jack's father, Teague, and his young son, Bradley. Jack was sure he would acquire some sort of profit for his efforts.

"Bradley, my good man!" Jack called out, swaggering through the doorframe of the small pawn shop, conveniently situated across the street from his favorite tavern.

"Jack Sparrow! The wind finally blew ya back for Tortuga, aye? What treasures have ya brought to me this time?" the young Bradley inquired with a smile, placing down his seeing glass and a small piece of jewelry to greet Jack.

"Aye, my friend, you will not be disappointed with this finding. They're absolutely ancient and possibly even priceless," Jack stated, nonchalantly, looking down at his nails as he placed the pouch on the table in front of Bradley.

Bradley untied the small rope that closed the pouch, spilling the contents out onto the table. Twenty-nine silver coins toppled out, shining brightly under the glow of amber candlelight. Bradley took one into his palm, weighing it in his hand before biting it with his molars to check the coin's density.

"These coin's are ancient alrigh'. Never seen anything like 'em before and for all I know you probably won't even be able ta buy a drink wit' these," Bradley concluded. "Lemme check, for sure. Oi, Da! Come 'ere and take a'look at what Jack brought to us!"

Old man, Willie, was years beyond the age of Teague. White hair graced his scalp, shining brightly each time he passed the glowing essence of a lit candle. He approached the table, greeting Jack with a simple nod and a charming smile.

"Willie, my dear old friend!" Jack exclaimed, raising his arms to greet the elderly man.

"Funny, how all you young lads seem to emphasize the word 'old' when describing me," he observed, smiling, as he noticed that he caught Jack off guard. "Oh don't look so serious, Jack. It doesn't suit you, especially when you know that I take no offense."

Willie held the seeing glass in front of his weary eyes, looking down carefully, at the assortment of coins upon the table. "Where did you get these coins, Jackie?" he inquired, seriously; his voice was feeble but his words were undeniably clear as though he did not belong among the likes of thieves and pirates. He knew Jack well enough to realize that he did not haphazardly stumble upon a finding like this.

"Here and there," Jack answered vaguely, tossing his hands and shifting his eyes to illustrate.

"These are obolus coins," Willie explained, with a tone of awe in his voice. He picked up a coin from the table between two of his fingers for examination. "They were once used in Ancient Greece and worth about a sixth of a drachma, if my memory serves me. Myth has it that it was used as an offering to Charon to ferry dead souls to their final resting place."

"_Myth_ has it, you say?" Jack raised his brow, sarcastically, knowing that it was undeniably true.

"These coins serve a higher purpose," Willie stressed, raising the coin the amber glow of the candle before him, shaking his head. "I cannot accept these, no matter how much they might be worth."

"Ah," Jack stated, looking fairly disappointed.

"You should keep these with you, Jackie. They might be of great use to you someday," Willie advised, placing the coin down on the table, sliding it gently along the surface to Jack.

"How am I to deny an old friend's advice?" Jack stated, smiling half-heartedly, as he collected the coins back into the small pouch, tying it tightly.

"I shall not take up anymore of your time, gentlemen. Many thanks, for your services," Jack affirmed gratefully, holding his hands together, bowing to the two men as he left.

"Shouldn't we 'ave told 'im that Teague is across the street?" Bradley inquired, quietly, to his father.

"He'll find out soon enough, son. They always seem to bump into one another at the right time," Willie said, smiling, as he went back to his work.

Outside the shop, Jack unlatched the pouch from his side, holding it up to his face. "Bloody useless you all are."

"**Shouldn't have put all your eggs in one basket, mate," **replied a voice in his ear.

"What? Who was that? It better not be you two, again!" Jack lamented, spinning around, attempting to find the two little buggers that usually sat upon his shoulders.

"Jack Sparrow?" inquired a small female voice behind him.

Jack turned. "Scarlett! Just the woman I wanted to see," he stated, cheerfully at the woman in red that approached him. He shifted his eyes around for a moment, looking for any blond women in the vicinity before he drew near.

She wore a dress of scarlet hues with and dark red underskirt made from quilted linen to give the appearance of a voluptuous shape. The panel at the front which was visible was sewn directly onto the underskirt so she didn't have to take off too many layers when conducting business transactions with her clients. It had a brocade base; the red overlay was a fine lawn with a cut-work design. Her thin lips were ruby red, overly painted to create the illusion of plumpness.

"Jack Sparrow! It is you! Why, I haven't seen you in months!" she observed, sauntering over to Jack in a seductive manner, pulling out a small red fan.

"Has it been that long already? Didn't notice, I can never seem to forget that darling face of yours," he cooed, hooking a finger beneath her chin, playing his best game.

She giggled softly, placing the fan on her lip, softly biting it as she inflated her lungs in order to make her bosom look significantly larger than normal. "Did ya miss me?"

"Of course, darling, that is why I think we should go … catch up, so to speak," he smirked, holding his arm out for her to take, which she did, quickly accepting his invitation.

"Now, my dear Scarlett, have you ever heard of a maelstrom?" Jack went on, leading her across the street to his favorite tavern, for a drink.


	21. Shall We Dance?

**A/N**: Longest chapter to date! Probably because its inspired by four amazing songs.

Dropkick Murphys - "Black Velvet Band", "Barroom Hero", "Spicy McHaggis Jig" along with Flogging Molly's - "Seven Deadly Sins" (_All great Irish punk drinking songs!_)

Thank you Nytd, once again, for beta-ing and giving me your input! You really sparked some interesting stuff here. ;)

_**Warning: This chapter is rated M for mature audiences - please do not read if you don't enjoy drinking and/or sexual situations.**_

Otherwise, enjoy! Review, review, review! I'm a sucker for your opinions!

* * *

**Chapter 21 – Shall We Dance? **

_"Seven drunken pirates, we're the seven deadly sins!"  
Flogging Molly_

_---  
_

The taverns in Low Country Tortuga were the social gathering places for pirates, where most of the discussion of buccaneer economy and drinking ensued. Drink was cheap and company expensive, even if the island was showered with booty. Most individual needs were met with considerable negotiation and perhaps, with forceful politics. Lodging and clean sheets would cost you about three shillings; dirty sheets on the other hand, only one shilling.

Now, the quality of drink at the _Faithful Bride _was the real question that was harbored in Isabella's mind, for it varied considerably from tavern to tavern depending on what time of day you would happen to be strolling in; the later in the evening, the more watered down grog was served. Barbossa accompanied her along with Pintel and Ragetti into a small, yet homey, tavern whose walls glimmered with the amber glow of lit candles and the sparks of haphazard pistol shots.

The noise was unbearable, so much so that she had to cover her ears when first entering the threshold of the taproom. She saw more of the pistols that Barbossa spoke of about the room, fired without conceivable notion of where they were aiming.

'_Wasted steel, if you ask me. Those probably do more harm then good_,' she thought, shifting her eyes to Barbossa's waist as he unconsciously brushed back his long, brown frockcoat to reveal his brigade of weaponry.

'_How have I not noticed those menacing pieces of metal before?_' she thought as she followed Barbossa through niches of drunken men and saucy barmaids to a long, gleaming countertop made of strong timber. Seemed like a smart choice for such an establishment. A substantial line of pirates crowded around the countertop, smashing their fists upon the strong timber in jest and sometimes in anger. Mugs were thrown and threats were fired, drinks were spilt and weapons drawn. The barkeep's eyes were on them. A man known for splitting up the unruliest of brawls and rumored to have even started a few of his own, he was certainly a force to be reckoned with.

The bar keeper, of course, made his own beer, wine, cider and mead while holding his own reputation on the line. He was a striking, middle aged Irish man, who truly believed in the quality of his product. He certainly knew that there was some difference in taste between the pasteurized and unpasteurized beers and that the customer would certainly settle for the former. Compared to lager beer even pasteurized English beer has a distinctively different taste, more heady and yeasty. He had every type of liquor imaginable, displayed on a large, multilevel shelf behind him with candles placed near the bottom of each bottle to display the name and amount remaining.

The barkeep scanned the counter, looking for new faces and old, knowing that he couldn't well give a knowing pirate watered down rum when he's sober. As all good business men did, he knew that apples and grain were not easily procured and had to be shipped in from New England in the Americas, costing him more than a shiny penny, but, most of all, honey was the real problem. Mead or "honey wine" had great appeal to some of the Tortugain patrons and the lack of it could, in fact, start the rowdiest of all bar fights. So, he made sure he had other alternatives.

"Open a tab?" the barkeep inquired, his accent was thick with softened vowels, hardened consonants, and a melodic tone of voice, almost musical to their ears. He cleaned off several brown mugs for their order with a wet rag and quickly wiped his hands on his apron and stepped forward to greet his new customers.

Barbossa lifted his chin. "Aye, I'll be havin' yer finest Vinho Verdi," he declared.

'_Nice choice_,' the barkeep thought, nodding as Barbossa tipped his hat to him in thanks.

The barkeep then shifted his gaze toward Pintel and Ragetti, who lifted their arms up in unison, nodding. "Rum fo' us, chum."

He nodded again. '_Predictable_,' he thought, almost sighing; now looking in the direction of Isabella. "And, what'll ya be havin', lad?" he asked, leaning up against the bar, awaiting, perhaps, a similar response.

"My good man, do you have any idea how to make Flip?" she inquired softly, hoping that her request was not too inane.

He smiled; no one had asked him if he made Flip since his visit to New England to trade for apples and honey. "Aye, I thin' I know a thin' or two," he smiled, taking in a much needed breath of fresh air to a man passionate about his product.

He quickly went about his duties, pouring wine for Barbossa in a fine polished wine glass while setting up two mugs for rum. He handed the three men their drinks and went about performing the tasks to make Flip.

Flip was usually made in a great pewter mug filled two-thirds full of strong beer; sweetened with fine sugar and molasses that he had imported from the West Indies, or dried pumpkin, according to individual taste or capabilities. The mixture was then flavored with "a dash" of New England rum. Stirred into this mixture was a red-hot loggerhead, made of iron and shaped like a poker, and the seething iron made the liquor foam and bubble and mantle high, and gave it the burnt, bitter taste Isabella so dearly loved.

He blew the smoke from the very top of the liquid once finished and placed it upon the countertop in front of Isabella. "Le' me know wha'cha thin'?"

She lifted the mug to her mouth, feeling the heat radiating off the surface with invisible wavelike motions dancing upon her chapped lips. She cautiously sipped the liquid, licking her top lip to savor each drop as if it were her last.

She moaned with delight. "Now, this is good," she affirmed, lifting her mug to the barkeep. "To you, my new friend. What is your name?" she inquired, smiling.

Ragetti looked down at his simple cup of rum, feeling slightly dissatisfied with his selection for the first time ever.

"Ma name?" he asked, smiling. "Wha's it worth to ya, lad?"

She shrugged, breathing in the savory liquid. "Nothing at all to me, but it could be worth something to you if I know the name of the man I would recommend to my comrades to for a good drink," she persuaded, still holding up her mug.

A group of arrogant pirates began to brawl just a few chairs away from Pintel. One of the large, portly men rapped the bar with his knuckles in frustration, spilling a number of mugs full of finely prepared spirits upon the counter.

"Haigh! This wont do!" The barkeep sighed as he watched the liquid spread down the table until it reached the area were Isabella was sitting. He picking up a bundle of rags and threw them upon the counter as a barricade for the liquid, watching as the pirates forcefully took their differences to the other side of the tavern.

'_Bloody oafs…_' he thought, as he gathered more rags to clean.

"Are ya from th' Americas?" the barkeep asked, narrowing his brow as he cleaned the area where the assembly of lofty pirates spilt their drinks.

"From the south," she replied vaguely, rising from her stool to assist the man in his cleaning. "Don't worry; I'm fairly a skilled in swabbing. I clean decks almost everyday," she laughed, attempting to reassure the man while trying to keep her voice as masculine as possible.

"Padraic," he said, finally. "Ma name's Padraic. Thanks."

She nodded, lifting her mug up again to toast to him, taking a long swig.

"Sláinte," Padraic toasted to the young lad's health. "An' your name, frien'?"

"Henry," she answered between gulps.

"Aye, Henry. Do ya kno' anyone from New Englan'?" he asked after a moment.

"I've met a few men from thereabouts," she answered, thinking of Colin as she watched him finish his cleaning.

"Thanks again, lad. Enjoy," he asserted hastily, darting off toward the end of the bar to greet several more new customers.

Isabella looked over her shoulder to Ragetti and smiled, holding up her mug. "You lot need to branch out a bit," she giggled, noticing his dissatisfied face, looking over find Padraic. "Looks like we'll be needing two more … and you, Hector?"

"Nay, lass," he stated softly, holding up his bottle. "I think I'm doin' jus' fine," he said smiling as he rose from his chair.

"Where are you going?" she inquired as Barbossa turned to leave.

"I'll be around, jus' lookin' fer an ol' friend that's rumored ta be in town … take this," he stated coolly, retrieving his pistol from his side, cocking it before handing it to her with ease, "fer yer protection, in case somethin' were to happen ta ye."

"But, I don't even know how to use this thing!" she said, pointing the pistol up toward the ceiling, pulling the trigger clumsily with her index finger, feeling the barrel explode in her hand with fiery passion. She screamed, shutting her eyes tightly for a moment, until the sound had faded from her ears. She finally opened them to the sound of cackling laughter; the world around her seemed to have not even flinched at the outburst.

She looked in front of her to find a hysterical Barbossa. "Bloody hell, Hector! That's not funny!" she yelled, putting a finger in her ear to shake off the explosion.

But, he could not stop his laughter and before she knew it, Pintel and Ragetti had joined in suit. Pintel exerted a series of spontaneous, unarticulated sounds accompanied by a smack to his thigh and a long hoggish snort.

Ragetti smacked his round, pot belly. "Alright, alright! Shush now, ya sound like a butchered hog!"

"Hey! I've got the pistol here, remember?" she said, aiming the pistol between all three of her potential targets.

"Didn't mean no harm, Miss—Henry—I mean…" Ragetti faltered.

"Shut it!" Pintel growled, smacking the back of Ragetti's head. "Before you blow our cover, ya loudmouth ingrate!"

"'Sides, ye have to reload ta do any damage, Henry," Barbossa stated knowingly, finishing his glass of wine before signaling over to Padraic to provide him with a bottle for further tasting. He reloaded the gun with careful, nimble fingers, instructing Isabella on each individual piece of its anatomy even if she wouldn't remember it the very next day.

The taproom became increasingly louder as the evening rolled on. Barbossa came and went, almost pacing between the bar and the small dance floor where several musicians played catastrophically drunken fiddle music. Isabella watched Barbossa grow increasingly impatient with each step and after a little while of walking back and forth, Barbossa finally came to his senses, stepping out of the tavern for a breath of fresh air.

Isabella's Flip quickly became a quiet, sneaky murderer of energy, happiness and brain function.

In the distance, a man adorned with a long crimson frock coat seemed to partition the inebriated crowd; his swagger was slow and confident. So much so that it caught the eyes of meddlesome Pintel. The echo of his footsteps danced across the pale amber walls of the tavern, each step causing his hips to carelessly swing the sash that was elegantly tied around his waist. His hair was carefully styled in long, black dreadlocks; trickling with beads and small silver crosses, and restrained by a dark, green bandana. His large bicorne could be seen from afar, showcasing white pheasant feathers as a symbol of status, simply emanating the word 'Captain.'

Pintel shook Ragetti's shoulder, silently pointing to the man that took a seat beside Isabella, flipping his coat out from under himself before he sat on barstool. He laced his fingers together and leaned his elbows on top of the counter, nodding a silent request to Padraic and watched as the barkeep scramble, searching for utter perfection.

He eagerly shifted through an assortment of decoratively crafted bottles and hand blown glasses, finally emerging to place a reservoir glass filled with a naturally colored verte beside to a beautifully engraved absinthe spoon.

Isabella looked over her shoulder at Ragetti, who seemed to be mesmerized by the man beside her. She turned her head in his direction, finding a warm familiarity to his features and charm emanating from his persona.

"Oi," called Ragetti, nudging her arm eagerly.

"Aye?"

"I found Jack!" He smiled. 'Parently, someone else found 'im s'well," he said chuckling as he placed a hand over his mouth before he could let out any more gossip. He pointed his finger in the direction of a round table nestled within a darker corner in the tavern. A dark, long haired figure sat comfortably in a chair, trinkets sparkling with brief essences of candlelight. A rather overly decorated woman sat casually upon his lap, slipping him small heartless kisses and sensual caresses. Her cheeks were powdered with an excessive amount of blush and her hair curled to dainty perfection.

Teague casually cleared his throat, snapping Isabella back to reality.

She turned her attention to him again, observing him for a moment out of sheer curiosity. "You look familiar, sailor," she announced, catching Teague's attention as she placed an inquisitive finger on her bottom lip. "Have we met before?"

"That's Cap'n Teague, Miss," Ragetti whispered in her ear. "Keeper of the--"

"Nay, lad, I'm afraid ya haven't met the likes of me before," Teague answered honestly, interrupting Ragetti as he lifted the glass to his lips to take a shot of his green liquid. "Haven't sailed these waters in ages," he explained nostalgically, slowly licking his lips.

She nodded, looking down at her drink for a moment, running her finger tips along the edges of the decorative the pewter mug, savoring the cool sensations it brought to her sanity through her fingertips. She watched Jack steadily with her peripherals, making out the image of Jack's fingers twirling the bloody wench's curly red locks.

She paused. '_The bloody wench?_' she thought incredulously, suddenly feeling that spark of animosity in her heart turn to confusion. '_He's a grown man; he can make his own decisions. It's not my place to tell him who he can sleep with or not._'

She bit her cheek enviously. '_But, why not me? Am I really that repulsive?_' she thought, peering through her short, brittle locks, down to her body. Her small breasts, dirty palms, broken finger nails and slightly "voluptuous" waist line stuck out to her the most as she critically analyzed every crevice of her existence.

Her shoulders slumped in defeat, she leaned her elbows against the bar for leverage as she began to feel a bit lightheaded from the drink. "So, is that what men like?" she thought aloud, rolling her wrists in Jack's direction as she casually took another drink from her mug. She gazed over at Jack, watching his hands travel their course upon the strumpet's seemingly thin waist. "Corsets, face paint and overall insecurity in one's true self?" she furthered, clarifying her previous statement.

Teague observed the lad for a moment, unsure of where he was directing his question. He shifted his eyes between his son and the rather effeminate sailor sitting beside him.

"I'll have what he's having, just stronger," Isabella commanded to Padraic, pointing to Teague's empty glass. "And, can we do something about this chaos that they're playing?" she asked, placing her palms tightly on her ears. "I swear my ears might leave any second now."

"And th' rest of ya?"

"I'll still be here and in much better spirits from not having to listen to that anymore."

"Then let 'em go," he joked, filling her order as quickly as he could; running off the end of the bar once more to take the orders of a few more blokes that sauntered in. She picked up the glass with two fingers, bringing it to her lips before quickly shooting the green liquid down her throat, paying no mind to the burning sensation that ignited deep within her, crawling down to the very pit of her stomach. She looked over at Ragetti, grabbing his mug from his hand.

"Sorry, mate. But, my throat's burning!" she muttered, bringing the mug to her lips, letting a solid stream of liquid cascaded down her cheeks, washing away the kohl-like impurity on her face.

Teague's eyes were upon her, yet she had not noticed his piercing gaze harden in judgment as the liquid continued to pour down the side of her mouth.

"You're one to talk about being false?" Teague questioned, watching as the lad's mustache and parts of his beard began to disappear before his eyes. The music had stopped and her charade had come to a disastrous halt.

"'Pears as though, lass, that you've been tryin' so hard to be everyone else but yourself," he observed, lifting a hand to her face, rubbing away some of the smudged kohl with his coarse thumb.

"Oh," she muttered, staring into Teague's eyes for a moment as he continued to burn a hole through her disguise. He was absolutely daunting with a distinct aroma of mystery that sung like poetry – almost deadly to those without proper defense.

She slid back her chair, slowly rising to her feet, taking a small step back as she continued to keep eye contact with Teague. She cleared her throat. "Well, my good man, I must bid you ado. If you ever need your decks swabbed – er, not in that fashion … you may call upon me," she stammered, before dashing away into the rambunctious crowd that formed on the dance floor, thinking that she could probably lose the old pirate amidst the commotion.

A small man emerged from a cloud of second-hand gun powder, climbing atop a wobbly old table, holding a rather interesting instrument. It was one that Isabella recognized immediately, finding herself lost in her thoughts, tossing Teague to the back of her mind as the man called for everyone's attention.

It was an intricately decorated bagpipe, equipped with three large pipes called drones. The small man brought the blowpipe to his lips, sliding his fingers on the chanter pipe, beginning to play steady and constant tune. The room was filled with beautiful chirping grace notes and excellent timing. The tune became more and more familiar to Isabella as his song progressed, for it was an up tempo jig known as the Donella Beanton.

"Scottish scoundrels!" Padraic yelled in jest from behind the bar, bobbing his head to the beat of the Scottish drum.

"Don't ruin the moment, Padraic! We've finally got some decent music going!" she yelled, waving delightfully in his direction.

Memories began flowing through her mind and for the first time, they weren't awful or discouraging. She smiled, remembering a man in Scotland that she had met many, many years ago who played bagpipes just as beautifully. The memory of him caused her to begin dancing by herself, feeling the beat of the music flowing through her body, taking control of her hips and arms. She closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the involuntary movement.

She felt hot breath on her neck and a pair of hands on her shoulders. He turned her delicately with his finger tips.

"Shall we dance, lass?" Teague inquired, gently taking her hands as he moved a great step forward with his left foot.

She took a large step back in suit. "A proper dance?" she shot back, raising her brow as she felt his fingers intertwine with hers.

"Proper enough for a pirate, if you're willin' to believe in such things," he retorted, taking a small step forward with his right foot to make a quarter turn to his left.

She took a small step back with her left foot to make a quarter turn to her left. "I've had my fair share in dealings with pirates," she added, feeling Teague tighten his grip on her hands. "You lot aren't so terrifying."

"Is that so?" he inquired, smiling as he brought his left foot towards his right. "You seem too young to be dealin' with pirates, let alone swabbin' decks for 'em."

"I'm older than you might think, sailor," she stated confidently, looking deeply into his eyes. "And if I'm not mistaken, _you_ took the liberty of asking _me _to dance."

She chucked softly at her observation. "You're certainly not as old as me. I've watched the world burn and rise up from its ashes more times than I'd like to admit. All while you were still suckling your mum's teat," he stated in a low, harsh whisper.

"Such vulgarity, _Captain_ Teague, I wasn't expecting that coming from a man of class and distinction such as yourself," she challenged, raising her brow as she twirled her beneath his arm once more. "And for your information, I certainly know how to act my age in some respects."

"Prove me wrong, then, lass," he cooed, smirking seductively.

"My apologies, Captain, but a _proper_ lady does not discuss such things," she teased, as he took a step forward to begin their waltz again.

"Perhaps, another drink? To loosen the tongue and numb the senses," he offered, bringing her closer to him.

She rolled his eyes playfully, continuing to enjoy her dance with the charming pirate.

"So, who are you, really?" he asked suddenly, as he raised his left arm to push Isabella under and across the front of him.

"Why do you wish to know?" she asked, continuing to turn beneath Teague's arm as he took another step forward.

"Well, to put it plain an' simple to ya, s'not easy for a father to watch a cross dressing _lady_ chase after his only son," he accused, lowering his left arm and placing his right hand on Isabella's back.

It hit her. She finally realized why he seemed so familiar. "Chasing your son? Hardly," she sneered, looking over at the corner to find Jack, yet he was no where in sight. She darted her eyes to Ragetti, who knew exactly what she was searching for, he shrugged his shoulders to her in the distance. She licked her hand, forcefully wiping away the remainder of the kohl from her face in utter frustration.

"Damnit, are you happy now?" she cried, pulling her hands away from Teague's firm grasp as she merged with the crowd, once again. She wanted nothing more to be away from them all.

She snaked her way through a maze of dancing pirates, only to be pushed and pulled aside by various sources, including being hit in the face with the breasts of several large, promiscuous women. The bellows of inebriated men deafened her ears as she watched her vision slowly turned upside down, moving in slow tremors while blinding her with dazzling, bright lights. She began to panic as the air grew dense from heat and body odor, feeling her cheeks tingle as if tiny, microscopic worms were multiplying rapidly on her face. Short of breath, she felt a pair of hands upon her, propelling her toward the door. She felt thankful inside, someone had finally understood her struggle, for she no longer wanted to dance, to drink or be merry with unknown strangers…

No, what she desired most was to embrace the freshness of the evening breeze as she had done almost every night in Florida. She had once embraced the wind as if she were embracing a passionate lover, yet never feeling the same loving gesture in return. Inhaling with deep longing within her heart, she realized what she's wanted all along: to be embraced in the arms of the man she'd denied herself from for too long.

The former welcomed her with open arms and unbiased discernment while caressing her gently with light currents and kissing her softly with the pureness of clarity. But, would the latter be just as accepting?

* * *

She led him up the tavern stairs to a series of rooms directly above the taproom, lighting the way with a small candelabra in hand. Their fabricated courtship had ended and now it was time to discuss the details behind closed doors. She pulled him forcefully toward a small room at the end of the dimly lit hallway, she wouldn't let her night of hard work and persuasions go to waste. Opening the door cautiously, she slid the candelabra through the doorway, making sure that the room was not already occupied by one of her associates. The candlelight revealed a humble abode, four simple walls, a bed, bed table, desk and open window.

The lavish, red bedspread was for show, ultimately put on for tidiness or display rather than warmth and comfort - embroidered with every sort of refinery that a weaving seamstress could possibly produce in her lifetime. Scarlett could not stop talking about the damn thing.

"The quilt's in both appliqué with spots of patchwork that was made in the Americas," she chattered on, looking down at her nails as she climb atop the bed, sitting herself comfortably in front of Jack so he could begin the daunting task of untying the back of her corset. Normally, he would have just sliced the corset open with his knife but, he did not wish to buy the insatiable woman a new dress in the morn.

He had taken the liberty of removing his frockcoat, waist coat and undershirt along with several other trinkets that hung from his waist. His time was rationed just like all of her other callers, so it was best to get down to business as quickly as possible. His experiences with her were always enjoyable, to say the least, but rather pre-scripted, lacking the true intimacy of a lover would passionately possess.

He began to notice how many times he'd untied those very same laces. '_A universal combination of an unguarded safe_,' he thought. But, then again, he was in no position to complain whether the safe were unlocked or not; it was in his possession at the moment.

She felt the last of her laces being drawn, suddenly feeling the pit of her stomach begin to quiver from the thought of another night of forced affection. She composed herself, taking in a deep breath as she reminded herself that it was part of her profession and that Jack was ultimately a gentleman. If anything, she'd rather be in the safety of his arms than those of any other drunken jackass on this island. She let him remove her corset and stays, leaving her with a slightly soiled linen chemise. Turned to him, she pushed him down upon her bed.

He felt her warmth upon his hardened manhood as she straddled his stomach, removing her chemise as she swayed her hips slowly, her nude form partly masked by shadows. She traced her fingers over his lean upper body, taking the time to caress every scar and tattoo with great care while supplely licking the two bullet wounds on his chest.

He let his hands wander, tracing her thighs with the very tips of his fingers, letting them journey across the plain of her flat stomach and tickle her visible rib cage. He grasped her slender waist, slowly massaging her pale skin with his palms, letting the coldness of his rings cause bumps of hardened gooseflesh. He playfully traced lines between each one of her blemishes, letting them lead him up to her small, slightly hanging breasts – blaming them for his sinful actions, if need be.

"Oh, Jack," she giggled, pushing his hands up to grab her breasts – he was taking too long. She fondled his beard seductively, pushing his arms down firmly to the bed. "Wha' can I do ya for this fine evening, _Mr. Sparrow_?"

He sighed softly. "Whatever I can get for the contents of that little black pouch over yonder." He nodded his head over in to the object on her bed table, where he had tossed his effects.

She reached over to it, extending her body along with her arms to reach it as Jack eagerly ogled her figure.

He noticed a large, green bruise on her back before she returned with the pouch. "Where'd you get that?" He recoiled, curling his lip.

"Oh," she sighed, "it's nothin' just an accident the other day with one of tha girls… nothing to worry about really, Jack. You know 'ow they all can get." She attempted to smile to reassure him, but Jack could see right through her rehearsal.

Her eyes glimmered with insincerity. He had seen them before - the bruises - they seemed to multiply on her skin, breeding larger and more substantial each evening. No matter how many times she mustered a smile for his sake, he knew she didn't enjoy it, nor wished to enjoy it with the likes of him. After all the years of sleeping with her, he could at least detect that. Her life of prostitution had taken its toll on her, causing her to be emotionally unstable at times, so much so that at one point, Jack wanted nothing more than to take her away from the sinful little harbor town that continually used and abused her. But, he was no better by calling onto her services each time he made port. Contributing to her everlasting downward spiral and the fact that her body had become the Tortuga's unholy temple.

"Jack, are ya tryin' to swindle me _again_?" Scarlett accused angrily, holding the small pouch in her palm while shifting through it with the tips of her fingers.

He smiled. "Darling, what ever could you be talking about?"

"This is fake money! Ya already owe me fo' the last time you were 'ere!"

"Fake money? No, no, love, you're obviously mistaken…"

"Bloody right I'm mistaken – for trustin' you!" she yelled, swinging back her arm and propelling it forward to smack him hard on his cheek. The force of her slap turned his head violently, causing him to feel the room spin for a moment as he felt her weight lift from his stomach. He cupped his cheek and shook off the pain, but was too late. Scarlett had already begun dressing herself, slipping on the remainder of her layers in a matter of seconds. She held her corset in hand as she irritably made her way to the door.

"Hmph!" she muttered, slamming the door behind her as she left.

He heard her light footsteps scamper down the hall, the sound of a door opening to another room and a corresponding slam after she entered.

"I pilfered a bag of utterly useless scrap metal," he growled, rising from the uncomfortable bed to walk toward the window, in need of a breath of fresh air.

"**Well, aren't we successful at not doing anything right at all?**" a voice spoke sarcastically.

"_We're probably better off this way, aye, Jackie?_"

"Aye, always better off alone. At least I can trust meself," Jack confirmed.

"_Good lad! At least you've got us to keep you company!_"

He nodded in half-hearted agreement, lifting his trousers a bit to sit comfortably below his waistline. His hands grasped the edges of the windowsill as he leaned his weight forward to peer out at the glittering canvas above him for just a moment, savoring its intangible beauty.

A loud rumble seemed to have been forming below him. The roars appeared to be originating from a group of men exiting the threshold of the tavern, holding in their arms the limp body of an inebriated man. He watched as the man was thrown out onto the ground outside the tavern's doorstep – a rather common occurrence at this time of night.

The man stirred, realigning his tricorne hat as he pushed himself up from the ground.

'_Hold on a second_…' he thought, leaning over a bit to take a closer look at the man's hat.

The man stumbled, planting his feet firmly while holding his arms up for balance before scanning his surroundings.

She looked about, realizing she was now in the middle of the road, setting her gaze upon a slight glimmer of light that reflected upon the dirt in front of her. She followed its path steadily with her gaze, discovering that light's origin came from one of the windows directly above her.

She squinted at the figure encased within the frame. "Jack?" she called out, stumbling forward a few steps as she continued to decipher his anatomy. "Are you naked? Are we all getting naked now?" she went on, continuing to scan Jack's lean and muscular upper body.

"Bella? You're utterly besotted, aren't you?"

"Absolutely not," she asserted, sticking out her chest in the attempt to compose herself. "What gave you that impression?"

"Don't forget to breathe, darling," he suggested.

She let out a long breath and giggled a bit, averting her eyes to the ground before beginning to stumbling off again. She did not want to waste his time if he were, in fact, with company.

"Oi! Where are you going?"

"That way …" she pointed, "to the beach, I think."

Jack scanned the direction in which Isabella pointed out to him. It was too late in the night to see distinctly through the dark, dripping passageway between several old Tortugain buildings. It surely led to white sandy shores, but she wouldn't make it in her condition nor would he put it pass any other drunken fool to discover her with intensions that were not so admirable.

"Alone?" he pried, sucking his teeth.

"Why not? I can handle myself," she stated proudly, waving off his cautious remark as she began to walk away, slightly wobbling to her right.

He noticed that the kohl mask he had drawn on for her had faded her identity now visible to all. "I see that Henry is no longer with us," Jack continued, attempting to keep her from running off.

His efforts would go without avail; she continued to walk, yelling back to him. "Aye, he must have jumped ship to join another crew. He probably doesn't like swabbing decks all day under the blistering sun!" she played along, attempting to regain her balance by placing her right hand on her hat, and holding out the other out beside her.

"S'not safe to travel by your lonesome at night!" he exclaimed, his words not heeded or considered. "And I let you take the helm!"

"Damnit woman – wait!" Jack yelled, anticipating for her to turn around at his request. After a few moments, she disappeared within the enigmatic shadows cast by the two brick buildings. Jack jolted away from the small window, running about the room to find his shirt and boots. He quickly dressed, knotting his striped-red sash around his waist, stowing his pistol as he tossed his faded blue waistcoat on top of his torn white undershirt. He hastily ran out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him as he quickly ran down the rickety narrow steps to the merrily glowing taproom.

"Hold on! Coming through! My apologies, gents, but would you kindly shove off!" Jack exasperated, holding his arms out in front of him to move those who lay in his path. He pushed several old sailors out of the way before slamming into the door stop, running out through the threshold into the darkness of night.

"Wha' was tha'?" Padraic inquired, slightly confused.

"Now there be a sight ta behold," Barbossa stated, smiling with a glass of wine to his lips.

"I've never seen that before. Aint it supposed to be the other way around?" Pintel furthered, looking over at Ragetti.

"Aye, usually they're the ones chasing after him?" Ragetti concurred, wiggling his fingers to illustrate his point.

"Destiny has a funny way of turning us in different directions. Of'entimes, a person meets face-to-face with his destiny on the road he takes to avoid it altogether," Teague explained, leaning up against the bar with his elbows, a small smirk curling his lips. Perhaps, his son had finally met his match.

* * *

It had been years since she remembered the good things. The sense of exhilaration, of accomplishment in having those who she cared for most in life look up to her for guidance and affection. To have a man whisk her heart away in the matter of minutes to a state of mind she had not entered in centuries. The good sense of normalcy and love weakened the drive for fear and regret. Yet, it was a wonderful but lonely feeling being entirely submerged in the sea.

She emerged from the sea and from her adversaries, as a woman of substance, fragmented but not broken. The sea calmed her and loathed her in the same instance; the elements could not help but be against her.

She planted her feet steadily upon the sand below the current, removing her heavily saturated shirt to wash its soiled stitching.

"Came out quite nicely, if you ask me," a voice stated in the distance. The man clasped his hands behind his back as he kicked the sand gently with the toe of his boot.

Startled, she turned slightly, covering her breasts with one arm as she looking over her shoulder to the figure in the distance. "Jack?" she called out, squinting as she wrung out her shirt, slipping it back on her dripping body. "What are you doing here? Do think I'm going to run away?"

"I don't think I've given you a viable enough reason to run from me …" he attempted to argue.

"Yet," she finished, sloshing her feet through the cold water, feeling the sand trickle between her toes with the shifting current.

She sat down beside him on the sand, tossing back her hair. "And your _company _for this evening?" she inquired casually, running her hands through her wet hair, trying to comb through the knots with her fingers.

"Problems arose," Jack answered vaguely, noticing that she had looked down toward his waistline. "Not in that respect! That's working just fine," he assured her, pointing his nose in the air.

"Just like your compass?" she joked, chuckling softly with a hand in front of her lips.

"That … is an entirely different matter, unrelated to the subject at hand, missy. And I meant financially, by the way."

"Besides, if she said one more word about those damn bed linens, I would have shot meself with me own bloody pistol," he furthered after seeing Isabella's expression dishearten.

They grew quiet for a moment, finding themselves at the mercy of the dark canvas above and the sound of the gentle waves crashing against the shore. She was mesmerized by a distant moon, glimmering like a brilliant symphony in a sky that she would have only seen in her wildest of dreams. Driftwood lightly grazed her toes, bringing her eyes down to the seaweed wrapped around her ankle, and she could feel the salt weighing down her hair from the ocean spray.

"Tis beautiful here," she observed plainly, leaning back onto her elbows, feeling them sink slowly into the fine crystals of sand beneath her.

"Really, darling, beauty is a form of genius, perhaps even superior to genius in most circumstances, as it needs no extensive thought or rationalization - quite incomprehensible and rather peculiar in form. In this world, beauty finds itself to be one of the few conceptualizations that we cannot grasp in the palms of our hands nor can we destroy it, no matter how hard you try. Not even with the blades of countless cutlasses or thousands of merciless bullets of iron."

She was floored.

"Can't you see it? Or, is it not something easily detected or deciphered? Is brightness of sunlight or the cool breeze of early spring something we take for granted? Even the reflection of moon in dark oceans of obscurity … your moon," he purred, taking her hand in his, running his coarse fingertips along the scarred edges of her first tattoo, letting the thin piece of cloth wrapped around his wrist flow freely upon her skin.

"You're absolutely brilliant," she whispered breathlessly, feeling her pulse race. Her wet hair dripped diminutive drops of cool water onto his hands; causing him to tuck a few loose strands behind her ear.

"As brilliant as a sea urchin can get," he replied; his statement filled with a bit more insecurity than she might have expected.

"Nay, more like a poet; an artist of beautifully articulated words and imagery…" she continued on, leaning into his words.

"More like a con-artist," he argued coolly, in a tone that reminded her that he was a pirate captain and not an overly sentimental eunuch.

"You're a poet, Jack," she confirmed, smiling. "Can't deny yourself of everything ... even compliments."

"Don't feed me ego, love, you'll end up regretting it in the long run." His advice was nestled warmly within a whisper.

With that, they spent the next few moments in silence once again; minds emerged in a countless sea of thoughts while their hearts suffocated within the depths of feelings unknown.

"Oh, my phoenix," she began softly. "I don't think he finished. Would you mind taking a look at it for me?"

His softened expression grew slightly perplexed. "Unfinished, you say?"

"Aye. Would you mind?"

He shook his head, whistling while he motioned for her to turn around.

She spun around toward the light of the moon, lifting the hem of her shirt to her shoulders, revealing the fierce, red creature on her back. It vividly sprang forth from a pyre. It embalmed the ashes of its predecessor in an egg of myrrh and now was flying to its new birthed freedom. Within the beautiful depiction was a mark of uncharacteristic error, an unfinished wing of feathers whose outline faded rapidly with each cascading droplet of sea water. The wing was in need of salvaging or the bird could not properly fly out to its destiny. He gently wiped away the stray drops, leaning in closer to decipher the faded black outline, stretching her skin between his fingers.

"That's odd …" he said finally, after some careful observation of the fragmented artwork. "First time the old drudge left his work unfinished. Did he run out of ink?" he offered, trying to piece together what might have happened.

His breath tickled the surface of her skin and his warmth delighted her. She didn't want him to know the truth of what really happened; she always knew exactly what to say to ruin the moment. John Thomas' death was so quick, so easy and so thoughtless. He was simply disposable, another soul tossed into the heavens without second glance.

Lying to Jack certainly seemed foreign at such an intimate moment. She shook her head. "It's really hard to finish something when you're not breathing," she stated amidst a cloud of nervous laughter.

He narrowed his brow. "Come again?"

"John Thomas is dead, Jack."

"Oh," he paused, looking up from the tattoo, leaving his hands where they lay. "You killed him?"

"No, Barbossa shot him with this," she sighed, tossing the pistol down upon the sand beside them. "I don't want it anymore. It's a heartless machine, driven on impulse of purpose rather than with conscience of the value of human life."

"What happened?" he inquired cautiously. "Did he harm you?"

"He called me a devil, pulled out his pistol and offered to save my soul from damnation," she recited awkwardly, crossing her arms tightly over her stomach, feeling a bit nauseous. "Thought he was doing me a favor, but Barbossa thought it wasn't so much of a favor after all."

Jack thought for a moment, licking his lips. "Good man. Glad his bloody aim didn't haul out with his age just yet," he stated, chuckling as he picking up the pistol, weighing it in his palms.

"The devil shows no sympathy and in turn, neither should you. The old bugger certainly deserved it any way you slice it…" he concluded, running his fingers along the barrel.

"Jack! That's not the point…"

"Did you at least take the pouch back?"

She glared at him sternly, crossing her arms.

"Don't look at me like that; those bloody things are nearly impossible to find! It took me months to catch them … Look! They bit me!" he exclaimed, holding up his hands.

"Well, if you want it back so badly just get the pouch back from Hector," she offered.

"_Hector_ probably already squandered it off on various items of a dubious nature," he argued, looking down once more at the faded, unfinished outline. He shifted his gaze over to the pistol, realizing that an interesting trade could be made in efforts to retrieve his stolen merchandise. '_And if he didn't, I'm sure he'd be willing to trade it for something of greater value._'

"Damn shame though, isn't it?" he sighed.

"Wait," she announced, shifted over to her side, fiddling through the contents of her pant pocket, finally pulling out a small, shiny blade. "Can you finish it for me?" she asked sweetly, searching his eyes for an answer.

"I'm not quite sure if that's an entirely good idea …"

"You just have to trace the outline, s'all I'm asking for."

'_I can't_,' he thought, falsely taking the blade in his hand as if he was going to actually help her in such a way. '_I don't have it in me heart to harm you._' He cleared his throat, pulling his legs in to rise up to his feet, dusting away the granules of sand that clung to his skin and clothing, lending a hand out for Isabella to take. "Come on, lets head back to the ship … I'll see what I can do once we arrive."

She took his hand, letting him propel her upwards to her feet as she quickly grabbed her boots in the process, stumbling forward into his arms once she had reached an upright position.

"Easy now, wouldn't want to embark on an endeavor you're not entirely prepared for," he purred confidently.

"You're utterly egotistical, you know," she countered, unwavering from her position in his arms.

"Trifles, I'll only give praise where praise is due, that's a promise. Besides I told you not to feed me ego, you just don't like listening to me."

"A promise?" she questioned, wondering if believing a promise from a man who did not always entirely keep his promises would actually disappoint her in the end, rather than have her feel any security at all.

He nodded, smiling brilliantly. "Shall we?" he invited, offering his arm like a true gentleman. She took it, grasping his shirt with her fingers as she walked by his side, boots in hand and feet slowly sinking into the sand beneath her.


	22. Mercy of Night

**A/N**: My apologies for the lateness of this chapter! Complications arose, ensued, were overcome.

Don't know why, but I couldn't stop listening to "Crazy Bitch" by Buckcherry when writing this...

**Nytd** - all I can say is: "Chickens fighting over legos."

**Chapter rated M, and I mean it this time!**

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**Chapter 22 – Mercy of Night**

"_Open your heart, I'm coming home."_

_**Pink Floyd**_

---

Her body laid bare at the utter mercy and loneliness of night, melting into a soft breeze that originated from the sliver of an open cabin window, causing her skin to tighten as tiny bumps of goose flesh began to generate upon its pale surface.

She sighed, running her shirt through her hair, attempting to soak up the remaining droplets of seawater from deep within her roots. She cleared her throat, crumpling the damp shirt in her hands before tossing it to the side of the room.

A flicker of light from her bed table caught her eye; it was one of the vast assortments of candles that Jack had diligently placed about the room, insisting that he required the proper amount of light if she wished for him to finish her tattoo. He left the room without another word, flicking his wrists as a silent request for her to prepare for his return.

Running her fingers along her lower back, she felt overcome with a feeling of uneasiness in regards to what was to come. The very tips of her fingers grazed the edges of her intricate tattoo, feeling her body trembled from the thought of Jack's hands probing her skin just as gently, pricking at her physical surface to ensure a new beginning for her soul. She suddenly felt short of breath, pondering the supple thought of Jack's lips traveling along her flesh, almost feeling the hairs on her arms stand erect from anticipation.

Placing her hands on her cheeks, she shook her head, attempting to erase the tantalizing visualization from her mind. He had plagued her thoughts since she had seen him in _The Faithful Bride _with his hands venturing into places unknowing on a woman unknown to her, imagining what it would feel like to be on the receiving end of his affections.

She sighed, walking toward the bed to peal away the thin white sheet that covered its mattress. She wrapped it tightly around her chest, hiding her scar from prying eyes as she clenched the crisp fabric with her fist. She heard a noise, causing her to stand utterly still, listening to a chaotic rustling in the next room.

She heard him grunt as he rummaged through various combinations of drawers and whistling as he rearranged chairs and forcefully pushed bookshelves aside. Faint jingles from the trinkets that hung amidst the tangles of his hair and belt began to create an enigmatic rhythm all their own, imposing unanimity upon its unique owner while his whistles enforced melody upon his disjointed persona. His movements composed the embodiment of the harmony and brought compatibility upon the incongruous.

Matting down the wrinkles of her sheet, she called out to him softly. "Jack? Are you finding everything all right?"

"Aye, I'll be there in a moment," he huffed, cursing beneath his breath as he continued to search through another drawer with the aid of a large wax candle, tossing several objects to the side with his fingers.

Sheepishly passing her hands along her sides, she turned away from the curtain, seeking comfort in the thin mattress as her palms slid over its cool surface, sitting rigidly along its edge.

He finally emerged from behind the drapery after a few moments, carrying his large candle in one hand and a small black object in the other.

"Finally found the elusive little bugger," he stated triumphantly, smiling as he held the inkwell in the center of his palm. "He was hiding underneath a pile of quills, as it were, thinking he could outsmart dear ol' Jack."

She stood, gripping the front of her sheet as she walked over to him, curious about the object that he had gone through so much trouble to find.

Shifting his gaze from his inkwell, he finally settled his eyes upon her figure flowing through the room to appear before him, features highlighted amidst the dim essence of candlelight.

"Oh," he breathed, soaking her in with wide, penetrating eyes. "I see you've taken the liberty of making yourself comfortable."

"Not entirely," she replied coolly, taking the small inkwell from his hand, shaking it near her ear. "Do you think this will be enough?"

"Turn," he said, motioning with his hands for her to spin.

She loosened her grasp on the sheet, letting it drape down her back as Jack held the candle close to her bare skin. According to the remnants of the black outline, the very ends of the phoenix's large, majestic wings were unfinished, along with the one of its shorter, but slightly elaborate tail feathers.

"I'd imagine so. If not, we'll have to pay another visit to our dear friend, John Thomas," he replied, brushing her hair forward as he continued to examine the shape of her back.

"I doubt he'd be in the mood to help the likes of us," she joked.

"Don't really think he has a choice now, does he, dearie?" he countered, turning her to face him once more. "All right, off you go. Best to get this over with - for your sake and me own."

She obeyed, sitting down upon the mattress with her knees tightly tucked to her chest while her sheet draped down gracefully just above her waist line. She began to fidget, playing with her toes as she felt his breath softly caress her exposed back. She smiled, curious as to what kind of sensation his hands were going to bring to her body.

Gently placing the candle upon the bed table, he began removing his shirt and boots before he sat behind her, pushing back several cords of his own hair as he placed the inkwell on the mattress beside her. He took a moment to admire the magnificent bird on her back before tugging softly at the sheet, prompting her to loosen it a bit more so that he would be able to drape it down to her lower back, detecting any more lines that needed to be executed.

Intrigued, she watched him undress from the corner of her eye, deciphering several dark marks upon his torso to be tattoos as well. They were unique, each one emanating their own mark on his existence, untouched by the sun.

"Bloody oaf knew his trade, that he did," he muttered, dripping the small blade within the opening of the inkwell, stirring the thick liquid fluidly, making sure to coat the edges of his blade with the proper amount of ink needed for the job before lifting his hand to her back.

Stretching the skin of her shoulder between his fingers, he pointed the blade at the very ends of phoenix's wing span, a viable starting point in his mind, yet he was hesitant, dangling the blade loosely between his fingers, finding himself unable and unwilling to pierce her skin and finish the job.

She felt him linger, causing her to slightly tilt her head back, turning to rest her chin on her shoulder. "Are you afraid to hurt me, Jack?"

Throughout his years of pirating he sought out continuity in his existence that was never found on either land or sea. Nevertheless, it was something out of his own unique experiences that drove him to the life he lead to that very day, he longed for it.

She was one in the same, searching for the very same stability in her existence, and he was certain that even if it were presented to her, she would not recognize it or know where to go from that summit of revelation.

He smiled, wishing to provide her with the opportunity to grow toward achieving the fullest quintessence of life, helping her discover and develop a unique gift of tenderness that only they could present to one another.

She awaited a simple response to escape from his lips, so that she could return to her thoughts as she braced herself for the blade's presence upon her skin, but what she received in return was an unexpected revolution of the heart.

He closed his eyes, finally mustering the courage to slice a line into her skin, hearing her wince in pain. Her cry prompted his eyes to grow wide as the droplets of blood began to pour down her back, only to pause and return to their place of origin just moments after. It healed over, leaving a thick, black scar amidst a sea of red feathers. He grew hesitant after watching the phenomena, dropping his hand to his lap, eying her form intently, and realizing that he could not bring himself to harm her, whether not she could heal from whatever wound he could inflict on her.

Letting the blade fall from his hand, he quickly thought of an alternative, beginning to run his fingers along the faded edges of the outline, smirking as he went on, continuing to let his touch linger upon the finished red edges of her phoenix. He slowly moved lower with each passing, dragging his fingers down each of the intricate tail feathers, touching her in places that made her quiver in delight.

His intimate touch was the root of what made her soul shiver and heart warm. She could tell by his touches and stares that he took great pleasure in acknowledging the beauty of her body. His intensions were intimate; his hands skillful in their work, and his movements were soft like the rustles of sheets. At that moment, she knew he would not be able to finish what John Thomas had started.

"Jack, what are doing?" she whispered, feeling him pause for a moment.

"Improvising," he answered promptly, kneading her shoulders with his thumbs. "You know, all great artists improvise."

"You're mad! You only drew one line!" she stated, laughing.

"Mad? Not at all, darling. I'm more afraid than mad, really," he replied, soothing her back by feathering light kisses upon the goose flesh of her shoulder blade.

"Afraid of me?"

"Nay, I'm afraid it's a shame really, I fear that your clothes conceal far too much of your beauty … Speaking from an artist's point of view, of course."

She froze, unprepared for his forwardness but, afraid that any sudden movement on her behalf would compel him to stop.

"Oh, Jack, you fail to realize that in art, any nude form arouses some vestige of erotic feeling within its spectator, even if it is masked by the faintest of shadows," she finally mused, closing her eyes as she felt him draw near.

"I think it just makes the form more intriguing, leaving the spectator with a certain curiosity to uncover more about the figure within the piece."

His breath lingered upon her shoulder as he leaned forward, running his fingers along the fresh skin of her torso before enveloping her body with his arms. The light caresses of his fingertips seemed to possess a mind of their own, each touch sending a delicate tingling sensation along the length of her body, fostering passionate anticipation, causing her to sweat with heartfelt anxiety.

"Wouldn't you want to meet the sea and the wind with your skin alone, just as Mother Nature intended?"

"If the sea and the wind are the only ones I'll be meeting, then I'm not sure if I'd be too tempted to comply," she retaliated in a soft whisper, moving her head to the side as he continued his journey along the curves of her nude figure.

"Forget not the delight of feeling your bare feet in the sand as the wind longs to flow within the locks of your hair," he purred, letting his nose probe the forest of damp hair that rested lightly upon her shoulders, tucking away several wavy strands behind her ears as he ran his nose along the cartilage, licking his lips.

"No, forget not the delight of simplicity, the feeling of one's flesh upon another's," she spoke sweetly, raising a hand to his cheek, biting her lip as she turned her head to face him.

His eyes made her heart quiver, speaking volumes of extraordinary poetry from deep within his soul with a single glance. So extraordinary, that she continued searching for the mystifying, dark orbs as he hooked a delicate finger beneath her chin, softly enclosing her lips with his without uttering a single word of poetic brilliance.

His lips spoke directly to her soul, writing letters of secrecy to her heart with each passing moment, causing her to deepen their bond by reaching out to him and cupping her hands delicately around the rough surfaces of his face.

He drew back, released her lips as he licked his own to savor their very first moment of resolute passion. Her eyes did not gleam with uncertainty as they had in the past, rather they possessed a deep longing for her heart to hear his prose once more, and he would not disappoint, for his tongue was his quill and kiss was his mark.

He ran his fingers through her hair, feeling the dampness of the sea soak through the sheer piece of cloth tied around his hand and wrist as he leaned into her once more, grazing the very edges of her lips with his.

Her lips were parted and pursed, awaiting another tender revelation to come together forming into a kiss that would cause birds to sing and roses to unfold. His skillful tongue could cause the light of dawn to whiten behind the stark shapes of sheets and shrouds upon the quivering waves of a turbulent sea, yet there he lay, restraining himself as he let the rough edges of his mustache eagerly tickle the flesh of her mouth with a desire to evoke passion, and heighten her anticipation.

Feeling his fingers travel along the contours of her face, she smiled, feeling him tremble with the effort of restraint.

"Are you certain that this is what you truly want, Bella?" he whispered, letting his palms skim the very edges of the tightly knotted sheet on her chest as she turned to face him.

"I have already surrendered, Jack. Can you not feel it?" she questioned, feeling her heart pulsate vigorously within her chest as she let her eyes scan the marks of a wanted man.

There was no underground community, no dark den of drunken sailors initiating themselves into manhood via cheap, ill-conceived exercises in bodily perforation. He was involved emotionally and the marks of his journey were not just there for decoration. It told a unique story of what he believed in and made no mistakes.

"Are you nervous?" he whispered, charting a well devised course along her arm with the tips of his calloused fingers.

"Can't imagine why I'd be scared," she retorted, grinning as she tugged softly on his beard.

Tilting her head back with his nose, he ventured down to the hollow of her neck, nibbling on her soft flesh as she reclined back onto the mattress, finally releasing her grip on the sheet to let it fell neatly around her body. At first, being self conscious of her scar she placed her hands along the length of it but, Jack simply brushed them away, nearing his brow to her.

"Mind me movements and I'll mind yours," he whispered, letting the braids of his beard caress her wounded chest, stroking the contours of her collarbone as he dropping a knee to her side as his hands traveled along her sides.

"You're not scared off by it?"

He shook his head. "Nay, I have no reason to be. It is a part of you, is it not? Besides, a fearsome pirate wouldn't be afraid of a-"

"Fearsome warrior," she finished, chuckling as she placed a finger on his lips. "I've always figured you to be a man of actions. No more words - prove me right."

He smiled, brushing her hand aside to bite her bottom lip, suckling the soft flesh before enclosing his lips around hers once more. She untied the laces of his trousers, releasing his muscular legs from the confines of the rough fabric. Wiggling himself out of the trousers, he settled his hips between her thighs, delicately suckling the mound of her nipples, so they stood dark and erect.

He continued on, supplely nibbling a path to down her abdomen as if she were the pages of a valuable map and he was searching for her treasure in concentrated silence, only allowing one another a few seductive glares here and there, speaking countless words within the silence of their intimacy as they longed for one another in natural physicality.

She squirmed, feeling his lips linger over her hip, giggling as he continued to probe, discover and diligently map every crevice of her body that made her tremble from delight.

"Jack," she purred eagerly from his roguish touch, still squirming from light flicks of his tongue as they caressed her hip.

"Shush," he urged with a smirk. "I have much ground to cover."

Skillful and passionate in his movements, he raised her leg, placing it down upon his shoulder, securing it firmly with his ring-clad hand as he began nibbling on her inner thigh. She rejoiced with a smile, surrendering herself to the tickle of his mustache on her damp dark curls, tingling from the warmth of his breath as he took her with his mouth.

Cupping her bottom, he offered her light flicks of his tongue in return for her heartfelt groans. He wanted her to feel the pleasures of his experience, feeling her succumb to his touches as his confidence grew by the second, making she knew that she was in bed with an infamous pirate captain, the lover of many, and the stealer of countless hearts.

Suddenly feeling her body tremor, she gasped, smiling in bliss while vigorously pulling the cords of his hair, urging him to come up to face her, but he did not. Resolve in his mission, he pressed on for another few excruciating moments, holding her down as her body began to spasm to a finish.

Finally succumbing to her persuasive demands, he rose from his position, retracing his steps with soft, giving lips and tongue to his starting point at her neck, prodding her dampness with the smooth silk of his manhood as he planted his arms upon the mattress, supporting himself with his upper body.

"Are you ready, darling?" he breathed in her ear, feeling her wrap a leg around his waist, willing to seize him with her passion.

"Aye … it's been so long since I've made love to another…"

"Slow it is, then," he mused, biting her check as he dove into her, groaning as he commenced a soft rhythmic motion.

Wrapping her arms around his neck, she closed her eyes as he set the passionate tone, pausing only to feather tender kisses on her lips and cheeks. He felt that their uncompromising passion had quickly manifested one of their finest moments together, the notion glistened in her eyes each time he released her lips from his passionate embrace, feeling her breath grow heavy with each thrust.

He found it harder to restrain his growing desire, harkening to the call of her spine tingling moans, quickening his pace as he forcefully cupped her hips to aid in his motion, taking the reigns of her body. As the moments progressed, he began to shudder, biting his lip as he drove into her once more, releasing his seed to the mercy of her womb.

Collapsing down upon her, he resting his face in the crook of her neck, feeling her heart beat forcefully through the soft, glistening skin of her chest, wishing to be released from the lonely confines of her rib cage and placed into the tender care of his hands.

He saw her smile from the corner of his eye, prompting him to raise his head to her. They both smiled at one another wearily. It had been a long night, topped with the discovery of hidden emotions and motives. Though they had triumphed through their pasts, they rose together at the present to adhere the future; their desire for one another grew overwhelmingly strong, the longing for love, the search for knowledge, and unbearable pity for each other's suffering.

"Do you know many proverbs, love?" he inquired, suddenly becoming inspired by her presence.

"Just a few, though I find to forget them over time," she answered honestly.

"Promise to remember this one, Bella," he said, leaning into her lips, whispering his sweet words like a secret kiss in the night. "'_Our passions are the winds that propel our vessel. Our reason is the pilot that steers her. Without winds the vessel would not move and without a pilot she would be lost._'"

She smiled, bringing her fingers up to his beard, journeying along the rough surface of his jaw line. "I promise."

"Good, for I'll not be willing to loose any vessel, especially not the one we've commandeered together."

---

In the dead of night she lay awake, basking in the warmth of his breath on her chest. He reigned over the small mattress, naming himself the ruler over most of its surface, leaving her with very little space to sleep comfortably. The temperature fell over the course of the night, but Jack was willing to compensate for the lack of blanket with his body, sleeping soundly with an arm over her chest and his thigh resting upon her legs.

She remembered kissing his forehead before he closed his eyes for the night and she had done so three more times as he slept, playing with the cords of his hair ever so softly, making sure not to touch the elaborate trinkets, for their jingle would surely wake him from his slumber. He looked too peaceful to disturb, like a small child after a long day of playing pirates with his companions.

Loud footsteps and low whispers began to originate just outside the cabin doors; she imagined that it was close to morning by then and the men would be making their way back to the ship in order to prepare for their journey and perhaps, steal another few hours of sleep.

She swallowed, attempting to wiggle out of Jack's entrapment without waking him, hearing him snort and mumble as she slid out from beneath his arm, watching him turn his head to regain his comfort.

The hairs along her nude form stood erect, feeling a jolt of frigid air from a small window behind the cabin's curtain. Treading her feet softly along the wooden boards, she brushed aside the thin curtain as she entered through the chilly threshold, placing her hands on the open windowpane in the efforts to close it.

"_Betrayal._"

The word was spoken in the faintest of whispers by a serpent's tongue, traveling through the stillness of night. The room suddenly grew cold enough for her to see her breath; she exhaled, feeling the presence of another as they drew near. She stood, resolute in her stance like the fire of courage, burning in a cold, damp room of fear.

She slowly brought her hands to her chest, attempting to cover her shivering skin as she tried to generate heat with her palms.

He laughed, making his decent upon her. "It's nothing I haven't seen before," he sneered, wrapping an arm around her abdomen as he forcefully pulled her back toward his body.

"Betrayal said from the mouth of a betrayer, how ironic," she whispered through her teeth. "Hermes, you deceitful snake, unhand me!"

"Still vindictive, I see. Haven't you learned anything from this experience?" he inquired, raising his brow as he placed a hand on her throat, squeezing it tightly. "Because it appears to me that you haven't, seeing that you are, yet again, in the bed of yet another man, thinking that he can protect you from your own fate."

"He's-" she began, unable to speak, feeling her pulse quicken.

"He's what? A good man? Is that what you of thought of me, as well? That amidst all of your words, spoken with exquisite duplicity that I would eventually side with you, leaving my own upstanding position to run alongside a fugitive of the heavens?"

"He's not like you. You used me," she said, feeling his grip on her neck tighten as he pushed her into the wall. He did not wish for her to speak or move.

"No, you're right. He's not, thankfully. God's do not consort with mortal degenerates. We are divine and control all that is nature, internally and externally with the culmination of the past, the awareness of the present, and the indication of a future beyond knowledge."

"Then, what are you doing here?" she managed through his powerful grasp.

"Your existence mocks me," he hissed, running his palm along her bare side, smirking as his fingers arrived at the slope of her breast. "Are you too proud to look at me as you once did?"

"My refusal of you is what mocks you, not my existence."

"The feelings I had for you shamed me into silence. The truth of this is that your name will never be revealed or spoken once we're finished with you. It is you who had truly made me realize the failure in my life and you will be forever forgotten in pages of history."

"Glad I could be of service," she spat, feeling his breath on her shoulder, wishing with every fiber of her being that he would leave her and never return. "What is the message that you've come to deliver me?"

"Why, I've already told you. Were you not listening?" he asked, smiling. "Hera sends her regards and hopes that you'll find the betrayer amongst your crew before it's too late for you all," he pouted sarcastically, beginning to laugh deep within his throat as he released her from his grasp.

He turned, disappearing from her sight as tears fell from her eyes, dropping to her knees in physical shame and utter regret.

* * *

As the morning drew near, hearty voices and movement began to originate from the main deck of the _Hellride_. Bustling with pirates and soldiers alike, some were returning from a long night out in the taverns of Tortuga and some had reawakened from a short slumber below decks. Whatever the case may have been, they all had stories to share the very next morning, along with an excruciating pounding in their heads.

Pintel and Ragetti were the first ones up on deck, strolling up the gangway just as the sun peeked over the horizon line. The two had spent most of the night in _The Faithful Bride_, chasing after a certain red haired woman after she emerged from the second floor of the tavern in a huff, but to no avail.

They spent the remainder of the night searching for their female accomplice, Isabella, who had been thrown out of the very same tavern when the evening was still fairly young. They decided after hours of searching that they should return to the _Hellride_, tired and disheartened, unsure of what to tell the captain of her disappearance.

"What do you suppose happened to 'er?" Ragetti inquired, concerned for her well-being.

"Don't know really… She could be anywhere really, maybe even lost for all we know!" Pintel pondered aloud.

"Well, what if the Cap'n really did find 'er?"

"Nah, I doubt it, she's the type that doesn't want ta be found."

"Says who?" Ragetti protested, feeling as though he knew a bit more about her than his stubby uncle.

"Says me, you one-eyed ingrate! And anyway, we don't know fer sure, she could be anywhere on this rock. But, more importantly, what are we going ta tell the Cap'n if he asks us of her whereabouts?"

"We can't well tell him very much, he'll ring our necks!" Ragetti suddenly exclaimed, poking Pintel's shoulder.

"She's not _our_ responsibility though," Pintel argued, placing a large crate into the hands of his slim counterpart.

"Take yer hand off me and mind what yer doin'!" exclaimed Pintel, riled up from his anxiety.

"Masters Pintel and Ragetti!" a harsh voice called out to them from behind.

They turned, finding Hector Barbossa, arms crossed as the thud of his footsteps found their way up the gangway to meet them on deck. His serious face and stinging red eyes were covered by the large, black rim of his hat, indicating a long and tumultuous evening for the old rogue.

"Funny how ye lot managed to get yerselves out of trouble, considerin' the size of that brawl ye had started in Padraic's tavern."

Ragetti gulped, pointing an accusing finger at Pintel. "It was his fault!"

"It was not! How was I supposed ta know the bloody harlot was already paid for?"

"No matter, I've taken the liberty of settling the matters with young Master Padraic. More important things need ta be discussed at the moment. Where be Jack?" he inquired sternly.

The two quickly realized that Barbossa had not come without reinforcement; instead he was followed by a rather extravagantly dressed man, adorned with a long red frockcoat that accented his long black hair, topped with a hat that could rival that of Captain Barbossa himself.

"Cap'n Teague!" they both exclaimed, bowing their heads at the Keeper's arrival.

"At ease, gents. Where's my boy?" Teague inquired, staring grimly at the pair.

"Haven't seen 'im come aboard just yet, sir. Must still be out to town," Pintel replied, a bit shaken up by his severe presence.

Teague smiled, internalizing a chuckle. "If I know my boy well enough, I'd wager that he retired a bit earlier than you lot might expect."

The doors of the captain's cabin screeched open, finally taking in the rays of early morning sunlight within its dark threshold. A small figure exited the cabin with care, clothed in the previous evening's ensemble with waves of hair lightly shuffling on her shoulders from the morning breeze.

"Oi! She's alive! Isabella's still alive!" Ragetti yelled, rejoicing as he made his way over to her in haste, placing a tender arm around her shoulder. "I mean, I already knew she would be…"

"We were lookin' everywhere fer ya! You're a legend, you know, the first one ta get thrown out of that tavern last night!" Pintel continued, shaking her by the shoulder.

"That hardly makes me any sort of legend!" she stated, laughing at his comment.

"Nay, but ye always remember the first one who gets thrown out. Usually because everyone's still clear-headed when it happens," Barbossa interjected, bowing a greeting to the woman.

"Well, good morning to you too, Captain Barbossa," she curtseyed, turning to face the familiar pirate that stood by Barbossa's side, smiling as she realized who it was.

"Good morning, Captain Teague," she finally said, addressing Jack's father with utmost respect.

Teague's smile grew wide at her unmistakable glow. "Morning, Henry," he greeted politely, tipping his hat to the young woman as she smiled in return.

"Fancy to see you up and about so early, with the way you were dancing last night," she stated, smiling.

"Resilience and determination, Missy. A man my age would know a thing or two about that." He rested his hands behind his back. "Now, would you happen to know the whereabouts of my son?"

"Oh, we'll he's just inside…" she stated, her voice trailing as she directed him toward the door.

"That's what I thought," he replied, placing a caring hand on her shoulder, squeezing it gently as he smiled, brushing by her to enter the threshold of the darkened cabin.

Barbossa stood his ground, fumbling his fingers within a small black pouch he had unlatched from his side, finally looking up to Ragetti. "Master Ragetti."

"Aye, sir?"

"I have some business for ye to attend to … Pay me dues with Padraic with the contents of this 'ere pouch," he stated, tightening its laces with the tips of his fingers before placing it in the center of Ragetti's palm.

"Do not linger," he warned, turning to Pintel. "Master Pintel, I'll be needin' ye to gather me crew aboard the _Pearl_, and make sure all the men 'ave returned," he commanded as he took his leave into the cabin as well.

"They seem rather uptight," Isabella observed, turning to Ragetti. "Mind if I tag along? I wouldn't want to get in their way if they've already gotten their knickers in a bunch."

Ragetti laughed. "All right, let's be off then."

---

The streets of Tortuga were as quiet as a grave that morning. Walking side-by-side, Isabella and Ragetti realized that the tranquil cityscape was a total turnaround from the streets they remembered from the previous evening. She saw various mulatto farmers and merchants selling and exporting sugar, coffee and other products packed in large crates and barrels. It appeared that agricultural methods could still be considered as rather primitive; farmers carried a hoe and a machete in hand as they went to work, harvesting coffee, cacao, and sugarcane.

Although the atmosphere was remarkably different, the faces were not. In fact, she spotted several men that she recognized from the tavern the previous evening, huddled around a rather lavishly dressed women – a woman she found strangely familiar.

"That's the girl that was with Jack last night!" she whispered, ducking within a small corridor between two brick buildings. "She's rather beautiful, don't you think?"

"Aye, that she is, Miss Scarlett has always been the apple of me eye," he answered longingly, still unsure as to why they were hiding in the first place.

'_Literally_,' she thought with a smile.

"Where do you think she got that dress?"

Ragetti shrugged, conjuring an answer in his mind as Isabella emerged from behind the building, making her way over to the red headed woman.

"Excuse me, Miss," she began, getting the woman's attention.

"What can I do ya for, lass?" she inquired quickly, in a business-like manner.

"Oh, nothing in that respect, really, I'm just in the need of some knowledge," she began, smiling. "You're dress is breathtaking, would you be able to point me in the direction of where I could get one much like yours?"

She smiled, scanning the woman before her from head to toe. "Right in front of ya, dear. Looks like you're in desperate need o' one," she replied with a tone of honestly.

Isabella turned, facing _Madame Rossetti's Dress Shop_, mesmerized by the countless scrolls of fabric that were hung gracefully within the shop windows. A beautiful piece of French cotton fabric was displayed at the forefront, decorated with beautifully embroidered red roses and floral bouquets in vases with birds on a cream and olive green striped background.

For a moment, in the window's reflection, she saw herself for the first time in weeks. Her appearance was utterly disheveled, the waves of her hair had run amuck, her clothes were tattered and her face still covered in grime even after the previous evening's bath in the sea.

"She'll 'elp ya in chosen what ya want," the woman nodded, making her way to Isabella's side.

"Thank you, Miss."

"What's your name?" she inquired promptly.

"Isabella," she replied, smiling at her new acquaintance.

"Scarlett," she stated, introducing herself. "Are you sure that there's nothing I can do for you, Miss Isabella?"

"No, I'm quite all right, thanks," she assured as Scarlett bowed her head, turning to walk away to her former post.

Ragetti quickly joined her at her side as soon as Scarlett was out of range.

"How much money do we have?"

"A good lot to give to Padraic!" he reminded her.

"Think we have enough for another small purchase?"

"A dress is not exactly a small purchase, Miss! I don't know if this is a good idea … Barbossa's probably expectin' us ta be back by now," he stated nervously.

"We'll be quick, I promise," she pleaded, holding her hands together. "Please?"

He was hesitant for a moment, but eventually gave in to her pleas. "Oh, all righ', Miss, but we must hurry!"

She smiled brilliantly, grabbing his arm as she hurried toward to shop.

A smartly-dressed woman with neatly-styled short ash-blonde hair stood by the door, opening it as the pair entered the neat little building. The hall inside looked freshly decorated in neutral pale colors, yet plastered with the scrolls of rare and beautifully colored fabrics.

The woman was quite startled with Isabella's condition and rushed her off into the backroom where Madame Rossetti sat beside her table, needle and thread in hand.

Her jaw dropped. "My word, dear. What in God's name has happened to you?" she gasped, staring at her with wide, curious eyes.

"Where do I begin?" Isabella asked rhetorically. "Can you help me?"

"I don't think I could forgive myself if I didn't."

She chose a deep, turquoise, silk dupion, shot with navy blue tones along with pearl-edged double sleeve flounces in silk and ivory lace. The lightly boned bodice has back lacing and the skirt had pannier-style pleated organza trim was individualized to her order along with the tassels of tiny beads in toning shades that were made by hand to hang off the back of the bodice. The drapery-parted opening of the skirt revealed a dark blue underskirt and petticoat.

Although Madame Rossetti favored a more fashionable corset, Isabella couldn't stand the feeling of it, especially with extreme restriction of mobility as might be indicated by a center-front dip well below the natural waistline, should afford early warning.

"The key is to have adequate boning within suitable interlinings, the appropriate kind of boning and correctly placed seams, otherwise the corset is likely to buckle at the waist, understand dear?"

"Aye, I'm sure that would make up for the fact that I can't breathe while I'm wearing it!" she retaliated sarcastically, holding her arms up as the woman finished pinning her new gown.

"What do you think?" she asked Ragetti.

"Rather nice, Miss," he said, eying the small, valuable looking beaded tassels. "Ya look … different."

"It is a good different or bad different?"

"Well, I mean, ya look dashing but ya looked just as fine before, by my reckoning. Why are ya goin' through all this trouble ta get one?"

"I just thought it'd be nice to have something of my own, that I could wear for a proper occasion…" she attempted to explain, dropping her arms to the side as Madame Rossetti finished her work.

"Ah, so you're tryin to impress someone," Ragetti deduced, weighing the slightly lighter pouch in his hand.

"I am not!" she contested.

"Well, whatever yer doin', it's goin' ta have to wait till we go to see Padraic."

"Aye, he's probably waiting for his payment, I reckon," she confirmed, turning to Madame Rossetti as she was putting away her needles and thread. "Madame, I'm very appreciative of your work and hospitality."

"T'wasn't a problem, dear. Take care of that dress now," she advised as the two left the shop, searching for Padraic and his _Faithful Bride_.

---

Perhaps, it was the lighting, but _The Faithful Bride _tavern looked like an awful mess in pure daylight. The tavern tables with upholstered benches were careless flipped over, appearing to have been smashed over the finely crafted, wooden bar. The radiant red walled parlor was covered in blotches of alcohol and accented with vomit and sweat. It's two beautifully crafted, brick fireplaces lighted a sea of broken bottles along the tavern floors.

"Blood hell, what happened here?"

"A lot," Ragetti replied vaguely.

"Apparently! Can't see why anyone would come back to this."

"Fer tha same reason that sinners go ta the cathedrals on Sunday mornin', lass," a voice answered, followed by the sound of brittle sweeping. "Ta bewilder themselves an' fo'get their despairs."

"Oi, Padraic!" Ragetti shouted, tossing the pouch over to his side. "It's not much, but it's all we 'ave."

Padraic stirred his fingers within the pouch, narrowing his brow as he appeared from the shadows behind the bar. "Ya tryin' ta shaft me, boy? Where's tha rest of it? 'Ow do ya expect me ta pay fer the damages done ta ma tavern?"

"These changing times 'ave been rough on us all, mate. So, we had a bit o' trouble gatherin' the funds an' all…"

"Perhaps, next time you travel to the Americas I can come help you find better ingredients for your Flip," Isabella offered, coming to Ragetti's aid.

Padraic paused, raising his brow in confusion, knowing that only one person had ever requested Flip in his tavern and it was a man named Henry. "Flip, ya say?"

"Aye."

He smiled at the woman, taking a few steps toward her. "Grand Cru Burgundies, 'ow many years do ya need ta age it?"

"If it were any other Pinot Nior wine, I would say five to eight years, but, you can age Grand Cru for longer than ten years for optimal taste."

"Rum, 'ow do ya distill it?"

"Distilled from sugarcane juice or molasses until nearly colorless with a light body while faintly aromatic, or dark brown with a heavy body, flavorful with a rich aroma - whichever you prefer."

Padraic tossed the pouch back to Ragetti. "Keep ya money, I want the lady. When can ya start working, lass?"

"I'll come back to you within the month. You have my word."

"I'll 'old ya to it," he replied. "Now, get out of 'ere, tavern's closed till t'night."


	23. Burdens to Bear

**A/N**: Thank you my darling, Nytd, for your beta magic and for dealing with the fact I had a really hard time writing this chapter, and I still don't know why. ;P

Let us alter the scope, aye?

Enjoy, loves!

* * *

**Chapter 23 – Burdens to Bear**

---

He had awakened before dawn that morning, not feeling fully rested, noticing that he was alone amidst a sea of tangled sheets.

Pulling on his shirt, he groaned as he walked passed the thin lace curtain into his glowing chart room, enjoying the quiet tranquility of morning. No one else seemed to be up at the moment, despite the first rays of light creeping through the window. It seemed that there was something peculiar about the quality of the light ... the color, perhaps. He dismissed the thought, walking further into the room to find a dark figure on the floor, curled up feebly in the corner below the cabin window.

He rubbed his eyes, narrowing his brow at the sight as he quickly dropped to one knee at her side. "Bella, what are you doing down here?"

She turned to him, sighing as she stretched her reddened neck, the sight of which startled him.

"Bloody women can't give a man a moments rest…" he muttered, scooping her up in his arms, bringing her body close to his chest as he brushed the curtain aside to return to his cot.

He laid her down beside him, wrapping her within the comforts of the thin, white sheet as if she were a small child, while continuing to scrutinize the suspicious red mark on her neck.

A cool breeze continued to flow through the cabin window, turning Jack's flesh rigid, the hairs on his arms and back standing erect as if he were in the presence of a ghost.

And then, he finally heard it.

"_Betrayer._"

A hot gust of air quickly followed in a serpent-like haze, flowing gently upon the skin of his neck as a deep, penetrating notion of weariness came over him, depriving him of crisp air to breathe and eventually causing him to drop his head on Isabella's chest and succumb to a hidden desire for sleep.

---

He awoke again several hours later, alone amidst a pool of sheets and uncomfortable pillows of duck feathers and coconut fiber.

It occurred to him as he rose from his bed that he didn't have a very clear idea of the events of the previous evening – the heat of passion with a woman he cared for accompanied by the faint whisperings of betrayal, altering the scope on his future exploits, as it were. He slipped on his trousers and boots haphazardly as he stepped out into the chart room, feeling surprisingly cold as he ventured toward the open window, finally closing it as he viewed the shimmering horizon from the glass windowpane.

He began walking, the soles of his boots whispering through the cabin, moving inconspicuously against the wooden floor ... their steady rhythm overrun by the softness of the tranquil waters of the harbor. He could feel the _Hellride _rocking beneath his feet; the dock lines moaning as they were slowly pulled and stretched form one side to the other. The sun had just barely begun to rise, giving the sky a pale pink tint.

The clouds began to move in, obscuring the rising sun. The light was slowly fading back into foggy darkness.

He was always torn between being silent and making his presence known early in the morn on his ship. He compromised by remaining quiet, but slowing his pace in the hope that any of his crew would hear his footsteps or catch his scent and have time to ascertain what he was before he actually arrived.

Though he did not have to make that decision for himself that morning, as the cabin door swung open and in walked the darkened silhouette of a man far too familiar, his Da.

For a few moments he stood quietly, smiling as he observed the cabin's chart room before speaking. "You look good, Jackie," he said, removing his hat to place it down upon the open chart table to reveal a brilliant green bandanna.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Jack inquired with eyes still wide from astonishment, tucking his shirt into his trousers.

"Passin' by, handling the duties of the King while she's with child and learnin' the Code."

"Ah, at _her majesty's_ beck-and-call, I see. I'd keep a sharp eye on her … she's not the type you'd want to turn your back on," Jack warned, searching through his coat for the stiff, circular map from Singapore.

"I'll be handling me own backside, boy." Teague chuckled, adjusting his posture. "What are you doin' here?"

"I'm just passing by, so to speak, searching for the usual chests overflowing with pieces of eight, plundered diamonds, unclaimed treasures of the gods and other items of an exotic nature," he lied, slipping on his coat and hat.

"Ah, I see," Teague replied, nodding his head, turning to find that Barbossa was not far behind, entering the threshold of the cabin just moments later.

"And where d'ye think you're goin', Jack?" Barbossa said from behind Teague, appearing with Jack the Monkey on his shoulder.

"Well, Hector; I am captain of a ship," Jack boasted sarcastically, sliding into a chair beside the chart table, leaning back against the wall. He smiled, unrolling the brittle map, placing it beside a newly updated chart he had pilfered from the _Pearl_ several weeks prior.

"Aye, so it seems, but it wouldn't make ye a proper captain, nonetheless, seein' that I just came back from cleanin' up the messes that yer crew left behind!" Barbossa exclaimed, causing little Jack shriek and hop about on his shoulder.

"Oh, bloody hell, Hector! Did you have to bring that _thing_ with you?"

"Gentleman," Teague interjected. "I believe we've got more important matters to attend to.

Jack cleared his throat, turning his attention toward the map where he had set his course. "We set sail, traveling along the coast lines of Hispaniola, taking full advantage of the passage between Santo Domingo and San Juan against the trade winds, heading east," Jack explained, running his finger along the brittle edges of the circular map.

Taking a hold of Jack's calipers, Barbossa measured the distance between the two islands, nodding as he realized the difference of just about seven hundred nautical miles between the pair.

"Aye, we're lookin' at a good week an' a half, maybe two if we're fortunate enough ta 'ave a favorable wind, which we won't," Barbossa concluded from studying their trajectory.

"I'd wager nine days, give or take, sailing at eight or nine knots."

"A ship this size is lucky ta make six knots on a good day," Barbossa interjected. "Ye can't expect ta run on eight or nine knots through the day an' night."

"Luck all depends on weight distribution, weather conditions, skill of the crew and its fateful captain, along with a host of other factors. We could put the crew on half their rum rations, or stop and put in for fresh water, elevating the cargo aboard both of our ships to maintain the increase in speed," Jack reasoned, hitting his knuckles down on the chart table.

"Ye'll overwork our crew ta exhaustion!"

"Of all people, I didn't expect you to be a hard ass, boy," Teague muttered under his breath, raising his brow.

"Look at it this way, Hector. If a ship of His Majesty's Royal Navy can demonstrate what structure and tight discipline can do, a pirate ship can demonstrate what our determination and dedication can do," he went on.

"And if the Royal Navy so happens ta stumble upon us, takin' on such an unfavorable wind?"

"I'm still working on that one, mate."

"Keep in mind, _Sparrow_, that in order ta go _against_ the wind, she'll 'ave ta be tacking. So, even if she's makin' eight knots on her zigzags, she's not going to be actually _travelin'_ as far as that seems. But of course, ye probably know this; I thought I might as well mention it," Barbossa reminded, grimacing.

"You know, if '_ambition_' was one of the seven deadly sins, you'd be on the road to Hell in an instant, Jackie," Teague joked, feeling a smile curl from the corner of his lips.

"Seven deadly sins," Jack humored. "I think I'm my lifetime I've nailed about six of them… I envy those who have hit all seven," Jack stated, smiling at the pair of older pirates before him. "Great men rise from ambition, you lot should know all about that."

Barbossa rose from his seat, excusing himself from their conversation, knowing he couldn't possibly get anything accomplished with Jack fluttering about. "If we plan on makin' good time, I best be off to my ship to weigh anchor. I suggest ye do the same."

"I'll still be wagering eight knots, if you'll be willing to accept," Jack declared before Barbossa could depart.

"Six, there'll be no more than that," Barbossa retorted.

"Seven or I'll be so inclined to take back_ my_ ship and show you how it's done."

"I suggest ye be thankin' the gods that I haven't shot ye yet, Jack," Barbossa said, placing his hat upon his head as he heading out on deck, slamming the door shut behind him.

"Two weeks…" Jack huffed, turning to Teague. "That slimy ol' cur will die of old age before we make any bloody headway."

Teague stared up at him, reaching into his coat for a moment, retrieving a small flask of dark amber liquid, setting it on the table for his son.

"Courtesy of the King," Teague affirmed.

Jack cringed, flicking his fingers at the flagon. "I'll not be having any of that."

Teague sat in a chair opposite of Jack, resting his feet upon the chart table beside him. "You got yourself mixed up with a whole heap of shit, didn't you? 'Tis a fool's errand to play with the gods, and you of all people should have known better."

It was too late to avoid his father's accusations; it was obvious that Barbossa had taken the liberty of divulging the true purpose of their venture. "I'll not be playing with the gods, Da, seeing that I have others who are willing to do so on my behalf," Jack replied, inspecting the dirt beneath his fingernails.

"And what of the girl?"

"What of her?"

"Was she a passing fancy? Easily disposable in regards to your '_plans_', or was it that you couldn't keep your prick in your pants long enough to make sense of things?"

Jack licked his teeth, determined on keeping his gaze upon his hand, ready to deny any sort of connection to the woman, even if he couldn't deny it from within. It was an easy task to bend the truth with Barbossa and his crew, but his father could see right through his varying forms of deceit.

"I had no intention of harming her," he finally muttered, looking up at his father's eyes for the first time.

"Aye, but harm her you will. Unless, of course, you choose to think that someone would still believe in you although you've betrayed them. Bendin' the truth for your own benefit isn't really a trait many women would find attractive, so to speak," Teague said, diving head first into the issue at hand.

"Ah, so Barbossa did tell you…" Jack began, clearing his throat as he rose from his chair.

"Truth, you say? A most deadly weapon, don't you agree? Why it's capable of destroying entire lives, cultures, and certainties. All-in-all, I think I'm better off following me own truth, and being at peace with whatever consequences may ensue. Improbable though it may seem, free men do not accept someone else's truths, so I must live by my own. Even when sometimes it means walking away from..."

"A relationship," Teague finished, narrowing his brow at his son. "You'd rather rule the seas alone with passion unattended … a flame that burns to its own destruction. Truth isn't all about satisfyin' yourself, Jackie. S'not about being right, but it's about being wrong as well."

"Is it, now?" he queried, slightly raising his voice. "By all means, Da, please enlighten me with the truth at all costs by _your_ account. Since when did you care about me own well being? I was a child not planned for, not wanted, and therefore neglected and tossed out to the mercy of the sea."

Teague rose from his seat as well, taking a fierce step toward his son. "Respect your elders, boy. I taught you better than that."

"Keep telling yourself that, Da."

Teague paused, staring into the eyes of his only son while attempting to calm the urge to slap him straight across his face. He looked over to the frail, circular map once more for comfort in his child's decision, but found it to be naught but a hollow venture – one he probably would have taken as a young man himself and perhaps, regretted it just as much.

"It appears that I'm equally at fault. All the mistakes I've made with your Mum, I've passed along to you. I should have known that you would have followed by example and not by advice," Teague said, feeling defeated as a father and mentor.

He headed toward the cabin door with his eyes scanning the wooden floorboards, lost in thought.

Jack finally spoke, voicing his final plea for his father's acceptance. "What a fine adventure it would be for us, Da. You and I, father and son, sailing the high seas in the search for immortality … We'd leave more than a suitable legacy behind, would we not?"

Teague stopped before reaching the threshold of the cabin door, placing a hand on the doorframe.

"Son, I've already come to terms with the fact that when I pass on from this life, I would have no proud memory to leave behind. All I have left in old age is the love for the principle and beauty in all things, and if I had had time I would have made myself remembered. That's a burden I'll have to bear for the rest of my life," he said, turning to face his son.

"Elevate your burden then. Live a life worth remembering, is that not what you want most?" Jack furthered, averting his eyes to the floor as if he were running away from his father's stern gaze.

"Immortality is a long shot, Jackie," he began harshly, leaning into the frame. "I'm not willin' to chase after it with false hopes nor do I wish to anger those who will pass my final judgment when the time comes. Hell, it's the last thing I'll ever be wantin'…"

He nodded his head, knowing that it was foolish of him to still feel any shred of disappointment as his father dispatched him once again at a crossroads, leaving him with the opportunity to make the most important decision he might ever make in his life while forgetting his past and causing him to question who he really was. Who was the illustrious Captain Jack Sparrow? With hands of a thief, mind of a prodigy and heart of a poet; he could not be so sure and in all honestly, he didn't really know.

He found himself at the threshold of his cabin door, the sea and wind had gone down, clouds still surrounded the gradual breaking of the day, letting only a few streaks of early morning light shine through.

There was something about the first gray streaks of daylight, stretching along the eastern horizon, throwing an indistinct essence upon the face of the deep, which combined with the boundless and unknown depth of the sea beneath him. It gave him the feeling of loneliness, dread, and melancholy foreboding that nothing else in nature could give. Hermes' words slithered through his mind as the light grew brighter and when the sun came up, another ordinary day at sea had begun.

---

'_Find the betrayer amongst your crew before it's too late…_'

Betrayal was not far from Isabella's mind as she found herself questioning the motives of all those around her. Hermes' words spoke of a truth so painful that it clutched on to her mind, soul, and heart, solidifying the fact that betrayal is truth that clings to deep disappointment and agonizing anguish that goes hand in hand when it comes to such deceit.

"Your crew…" she pondered aloud, causing Ragetti's head to shoot up from his thoughts.

"Miss? Is somethin' wrong?"

"No, no, nothing at all."

"Alrigh' then, we'll be back at the docks soon enough, no worries."

She nodded her head, prompting him to continue on, weaving his way through the morning crowd of merchants on the main road. He veered off along a dirt path that would lead them to the docks, grabbing her wrist to guide her along so she wouldn't get separated and lost within the crowd.

Now that she was playing the part of a proper woman, there was no telling what any man on that island would be willing to do to her if she were to be found alone and he would doubt that the crew of any other vessel would be as gallant a host as they.

Before long, they passed by hunters who were shooting wild pigs with their long-barreled muskets, dragging the dead carcasses to special wooden huts known as 'boucans' where they smoked their meat for profit.

A hearty stench of pig's meat and blood filled her nostrils as she continued on through dirt and gravel until they reached the entrance to the docks.

'_Your crew … as in the crew in general or my crew of men_? _Can't be my men, it just can't … I know them too well.'_

She nearly held her breath at the thought, looking forward at her comrade, directing her through the crowd. '_But the crew, they aren't mine, they're Jack's…Could it be_ _Jack, Barbossa, or Ragetti?_'

She shook her head in disbelief that she could be accusing such honorable men of treachery from the accusations of a conniving villain. The ship's crew - the men who were so earnestly called '_pirates_' were all good natured, by her reckoning, and in regards to her men, ultimately, it would be disappointment that would make her world as a general difficult. Their lives were unlike anything they could have ever imagined, twisted and contorted from days of ruthless fighting and countless hours of erudition. It was the truth of betrayal - the betrayal of their mentors, their militia, and their general.

'_Your crew…_' she thought once more, feeling the soles of her boots stumble upon the thin, wooden surface of the _Hellride's_ gangway.

"Forward there! Rig the head-pump, ye mangy bilge rats!"

Apparently, there was no time for daydreaming aboard her ship, especially when it appeared that there were not one, but three captains on the main deck, giving orders.

"Haul the sheets, sensibly now, lads!" Teague yelled.

Jack stood within the frame of his cabin door, looking out at his father, who had turned his head to silently welcome the pair that walked up the gangway.

The scrawny figure of Ragetti was the first to be noticed by his natural clumsiness in action and speech, but the second was unquestionably in need of an introduction.

He pressed forward, meeting the duo before they could make any headway on deck.

"Mr. Ragetti, how admirable for you to join us. Man the yards, and be quick about it!" Jack ordered, watching the man motion a response as he scurried along to fulfill his duties.

He turned his attention back to Isabella, scanning her head to toe, smiling. "What's all this?"

"Beg pardon?"

"That," he said, motioning with his hands toward her dress.

"You know, lass, I like this look much better," Teague interjected, brushing Jack aside as he took Isabella's hand into his, unleashing one of his finest, yet sliest smiles upon her.

"Hold on a moment here, you've met before?" Jack queried incredulously, wrinkling his brow at the thought of Bella being the first woman he's bedded and had the pleasure of introducing to his father all within the same day.

"Do you really?" Isabella went on, ignoring Jack's inquiry.

"Aye, lass," Teague mused. "Now, a name to match the face is all we'll be needin', seeing that Henry doesn't seem to suffice any longer."

"Isabella," Jack interrupted, attempting to draw attention away from the woman.

"Didn't know ye fancied yerself as a lady, Jack," Barbossa humored, causing Jack to cross his arms over his chest and grimace at the old rogue as he walked by.

"M'lady Isabella, 'tis a pleasure to _finally_ make your acquaintance," Teague affirmed, feathering a light kiss on her hand.

"Noble Captain, it is a pleasure to make yours as well," she said, curtsying low.

"'Till our next meeting, darlin'," Teague said, tipping his hat as he casually brushed by her to catch up with Barbossa on the docks.

"An interestin' pair, those two," Teague mumbled quietly to Barbossa.

"So it seems."

"But, she runs a rusty cutlass right through your '_plans_', as it were."

"Aye, but one thing's fer certain about Jack Sparrow, and ye'll be knowin' it well yerself, he'll play a fool's game till the bitter end. There'll be no divertin' him from course now."

Teague grew quiet for a moment, cupping his hands behind his back as they approached the _Black Pearl_, docked about one hundred feet away from the aft of the _Hellride_.

He smiled. "I'm surprised he hasn't shot you yet, for takin' the _Pearl_."

"I'm surprised ye haven't shot him – ever."

Teague turned to look back at the _Hellride_ for a moment, sucking his teeth. "I'm sure she'll be the one shootin' him before we even get the chance."

"One can only hope," Barbossa humored, tipping his hat to the Keeper before taking his leave aboard the _Pearl_.

---

Jack knew that the fondness of dress amongst women was quite excessive, and was the ruin of many of them, profit wise. He had known more than his fair share of women who were a prime examples of there being nothing more common than to see a woman living in a house of only one room, and the ground for a floor, dressed in spangled satin shoes, silk gowns, christened with a high comb and gilt, if not gold earrings and necklace. He kept that thought in mind as he followed her into his cabin, slamming the door shut behind him.

"So, may I inquire as you how you came about that dress?"

"I didn't come by it, I bought it," she confirmed, patting down her lightly boned corset. "Owe a bit of coin to Padraic, but it's nothing I can't handle. I've agreed to work for him in order to pay off my debt."

"Did you, now?" he queried. "You know, I always fancied blue," he went on, placing his hands on her hips to feel the cool silk fabric slip between his fingers.

"Listen here, Captain Sparrow. There's no need to be touching places that I haven't invited you to touch," she commented playfully, pushing him away as she attempted to return to the chart table.

"Now, let us not forget who the captain of this ship is, shall we?" he growled, bending over to send a skillful hand below her skirts to grasp her thigh, bringing her leg up to his side as he pressed her against the cabin wall.

"Tell you what, Bella, I shall grant you a reminder, because it seems to me that I did merit such an invitation the second, third and fourth time I laid me hands on you last night. Perhaps, I did not leave the lasting impression that I might have hoped."

Her lips began to quiver from his fierce advance, and she felt paralyzed as his eyes lingered on her breasts, rising and falling from her most passionate of breaths. It was as if he had placed a sort of wicked spell on her, demanding complete abandonment of words.

He tickled her softly with his mustache. "Now, in regards to your dress … I'm not entirely sure whether I can decide which I like better. Let us weigh the options together, shall we? First and foremost we have option number one…" he began, running his fingers along the delicately embroidered lace.

"But, alas, we cannot forget option number two," he breathed, moving his hand from the fabric to her thigh, massaging her firm muscles with his palm.

No doubt that he made his choice right there and then, she could feel it through her brigade of skirts. At least she knew that his hands weren't the only part of him that had a mind of their own.

Seven strikes of the ship's bell caused a momentous scurrying that could be heard from deep within the cabin, signaling for breakfast. The chime of each bell and the sudden smell of salty biscuits prompted her mind to return to the reality of things.

"Well, Captain, it seems as though it is time for you to live up to your reputation. The crew's waiting for you to weigh anchor."

"I'd rather drop anchor at the moment, love …" he began, looking down at her leg. "I see that you've neglected to pilfer enough coin from Padraic to buy yourself a proper pair of shoes."

"Can't take the pirate out of me, I suppose," she retorted, wiggling her ankle in the air.

He chuckled. "Nor would I want to," he said, eagerly brushing his lips above hers, the feeling that followed lingered as if it would last forever, and yet never long enough.

Their lips softly touched with passion, reaching out to grasp each other in silence as their bodies moved closer to one another on their own accord, and the world outside of those two sets of lips ceased to exist, as they sank gracefully within the comfortable warmth of one another.

"Jack-"

"Shush, mum's the word, Bella. Can't spoil you just yet," he whispered, winking as he gently placed her back down on the floor.

She looked at him, those dark eyes of his more lovely than anything she could have imagined. Until, of course, he smiled and made the world a brighter place as if there was no help for it at all. He was not her betrayer, she was sure of it. The kind of betrayal Hermes' described was one that discredited false ideals, harboring empty hope, and he was far from doing that.

She smiled, beginning to laugh at her absurd suspicion, hoping that Jack would not find her too daft from her sudden outburst. She lightly dusted her skirts, thinking of his soft touch and mean bite.

"I had no idea that you had any intention of spoiling me."

He waved her off with a graceful sweep of his arm. "Come, come now, darling. We mustn't keep them waiting, as you've so graciously pointed out."

With a skillful hand he led her out on deck, where the crew continued rigging the pump, and commenced washing down the decks, an operation performed every morning at sea. With all hands, they weighed anchor and hoisted the upper topsail yard and the topgallant yard in their highest positions to set sail along the coast lines of Hispaniola and beyond.

---

Below decks was where Isabella reunited with her men after their long evening ashore. Their laughter and snarls hinted at something different coming. The whispers from the crew on the main deck were barely heard by those below due to the commotion. Humor and jokes about their previous night's activities were dedicated with honor to their noble general while others were more silent, willing to listen in the efforts to retell the stories at a later time.

The floorboards creaked threateningly with the weight of many hefty men as they sat down on wooden crates to hear the stories that were to be told.

Gibbs was amongst them, telling a tale of a man who recently died at sea named Gregory, a friend of his past, and apparently picked up by the _Flying Dutchman_. He said that Gregory lamented never having learned to swim, and that he'd known that he would meet his death by drowning.

Isabella's youngest soldier, Murphy, had become quite attached to Gibbs through his stories, saying that Gibbs talked to him during most of his watch at night about his mother and his real home. During the night of Gregory's death, Gibbs found himself in a Tortugain tavern amongst a group of superstitious pirates, and the news of Gregory's recent death caused him great sadness that evening.

Murphy said he had heard Gibbs talking about Gregory's friends, and said that he believed a few of them had died without warning within the month, which was supported by many stories of the men slipping into madness by his dreams and odd behavior in general. From then on, Gibbs spoke about the _Dutchman_ and her new captain, talking rather mysteriously about him, evidently having something else on his mind.

"I was mighty afraid Gregory was a German," Gibbs announced, frowning as he realized that no one knew of such implications. "I say, lad, ya ever heard of the tales of the German wizards?" he inquired of Murphy.

"Ran into an old geezer at the tavern last night, who told me the Germans were wizards and have powers over the wind and storms," said Murphy.

"Did ya, now?" Gibbs pried. "I'll be most inclined to hear one of the old 'geezer's' tales, will ya tell us one?"

Isabella thought that trying to reason with the lad would have been far too difficult. Apparently the old geezer had the best of arguments from experience, and could not be moved from that notion.

"The geezer said he had been on a vessel from the crossing to England, in which the sail-maker, Ivan, was a German, and he could do anything he set his mind to. Kept a junk bottle in his berth, that he did, which was always full of rum!" Murphy exclaimed, throwing his arms in the air to illustrate his tale.

Isabella couldn't help but laugh. "Of course, Murphy, what else could it possibly be filled with, I wonder?"

"Though Ivan got a bit drunk upon it nearly everyday, it was always half full, and the old geezer said he had seen Ivan sit there everyday, talking to the thing," Murphy went on.

"The bottle?" Moore asked.

"Can't imagine a bottle being much of a conversationalist," Jordan joked, nudging Moore on the shoulder.

"You might be surprised," Moore added.

"Hey, I'm telling the story! Anyway, the same sail-maker, Ivan, cut his own throat in his berth, and everybody said the ship was possessed from there on out. Ever since, the geezer had heard of many other ships, beating up the northern shores of Germany against a head wind, heaving in slight astern, with a fair a wind as could blow, all studding-sail out! They said those ships were all flying German colors!"

"Never thought ze Germans could be so spooky," she whispered to Jordan, who was clearly getting a kick out of Murphy's story.

As the soldiers still doubted the origins of such a tale, Murphy said he would leave it up to Gibbs, who was present during the retelling of the tale, and would know, if anybody did. Gibbs, as they anticipated, sided with the young boy, and said that he himself had been on a ship where they had heard the wind for a fortnight, and the captain found out at last that one of the men in his crew, whom he had had some words with a short time before, was a German.

"Cap'n immediately told 'im that if he didn't stop the head wind, he would lock 'im down in the brig with nothin' to eat fer a week," Gibbs said gravely.

"Well, that surely doesn't leave the man with a lot of options, now does it?" Isabella deduced.

"Aye, only two an' he took the former. Held out fer a day an' a half, till he couldn't stand it any longer, an' did somethin' er other which brought the wind 'round again, an' they let 'im up."

"That's a load of horseshit," shouted Brady from behind the crowd, causing the men to laugh at the modern fairy tale.

"Is it now?" Gibbs queried. "You wait till you've been at sea as long as I 'ave, and you'll know."

"Murphy, where'd you learn so much about sailing?" Isabella asked, still rather impressed by the boy's knowledge of a ship.

"Captain Sparrow s'been teaching me bit by bit, General," he said proudly. "He said I'd make a fine First Mate one day if I kept it up!"

She smiled. "Of course you will! His efforts will not go unnoticed and neither will yours. I must thank him personally."

"Alright, lads, enough ghost stories for one day," Moore announced, clapping his hands together to rile up the men and interrupt Isabella's thoughts about Jack.

"Ah! I was just getting comfortable," Isabella stated, stretching her arms up into the air. "What were you thinking of for today, James?"

"Time interval training, to stimulate the body and mind after a long night of drinking," Moore said, chuckling.

Time interval training was simple, and easy to remember for most. The soldiers would be paired up with a partner of their choosing, standing before one another with just a sword as their weapon. When the word "time" was yelled, the soldiers would make one move and freeze. They would then evaluate their opponent's next move, so that when the word "time" was yelled out again, they would strike with utmost accuracy. The intervals would then decrease with the passing of time, encouraging their minds to think at a quicker pace.

"So, time intervals it shall be. I trust you all haven't forgotten those?" she queried, receiving a rousing consensus. "Alright, everyone to the right of our dear friend, Mr. Gibbs, will be heading up on deck to aid the crew for the morning hours. The others will stay here and train with Moore and me until the afternoon."

"You heard her, lads. Let's move, then!" Jordan exclaimed, hurrying his half of the soldiers up on deck along with Mr. Gibbs.

The rustle of swords stirred their excitement for combat, their courage and skill stared into the eyes of danger, even if they were staring into the eyes of their fellow men and mentors.

She paused before continuing on to retrieve her armor, reflecting upon her early stages of life where she was placed under the control of her trainer, a skilled warrior who spent most of his time preparing for his next opponent. He was a former gladiator himself and went on passing the knowledge of his experience down to her, throughout her twelve years of slavery.

Later, she was the one who passed his final judgment, slaying him with the very same sword he handed to her that very morning in Rome.

In regards to her men, she did what came natural to her, passing knowledge from one generation to the next in the hopes that their next fight would not be their last, at least, not if she had anything to do with it.

Perhaps, one of them would be the end of her as well.

---


	24. Of Rumors and Rituals

**A/N**: Another chapter for all of you wonderful readers.

Just a quick author update: I'm currently writing a series of sexually explicit one-shots (with very little romance) for the **Libertine** fandom entitled "_Conquests of a Well-Bred Prostitute_." Please be on the lookout for that if you enjoy reading that fandom! Also, my "Crimes of Jack" one-shot is in the works and will be up soon enough! :)

A very special thanks to Nytd for her magical beta powers.

Enjoy! I hope you all like sword fights...

* * *

**Chapter 24 – Of Rumors and Rituals**

"_I think that someone is trying to kill me."_

_**Mastodon**_

---

_Time._

Stances or guards are in many ways the very foundation of swordsmanship. The offensive and defensive postures and ready positions from which to deliver all manner of blows lie at the heart of any fighting method. Unquestionably, the stances represent the beginning of study. All principles and techniques of fighting all are employed in relation to these postures. Their movements were not static, but dynamic ready positions since she taught her men better than to be rigid in battle.

"Time!" Moore yelled, listening to the rattle of swords and groans of forceful movement.

The Romans, often cited as personifying the epitome of thrusting swordplay, actually stressed both cut and thrust with a wide-bladed gladius, the sword that hung in a sheath on his general's back at that very moment.

She willingly adopted two long swords in the efforts to teach her men modern techniques of the basic guard, which were divided into five specific stances. Each were efficient and powerful in their own way, and when it came to proper sword fighting in a heated battle, those very same five guards could each transition from one into any other.

The space below deck was small, yet suitable enough for their training, and lit by various shafts of sunlight from daybreak.

Murphy began this stance with his left leg leading and his sword in his right hand, transitioning between his stances with such fluidity that the possibility of him defeating Brady grew greater by the second.

Brady took into consideration that he may or may not involve passing forward the rear foot or passing back the front foot. There was a substantial amount of information that could be conveyed about each stance, their variations, how to move into or out of each, and what actions they provided for.

"Time!" Moore exclaimed again as he moved on from one pair to another, watching Baxter's first position as he drew his weapon up and to the outside of his body, aiming it upward toward his opponent's face.

His opponent, Camron, a skilled swordsman and a front runner for the title of lieutenant, was not an easy man to fool by sly tactics alone. Camron leaned into his position with a small smirk on his face. They all knew him well, realizing that he was planning what she used to call a "finestra" or "window" stance, giving the illusion that he would strike from the outside of his body.

Moore noted Camron's blade alignment by observing the angle of the cross; the blade was neither vertical nor horizontal but slightly diagonal, and in fact, the natural position achieved by cutting upward. In this position, Moore also noted the edge aims not upward or downward but toward the fighter, while the thumb is under the blade, not on top of it.

Moore had no doubt in his mind that Camrom would win out of sheer experience, examining as Camron held the handle of his sword high and just beside his head at temple. Camron took a risky position that was not as stable as others, but it would protect him well, allowing a direct threat with his signature straight thrust.

"Time!" he shouted once more, moving toward Baxter, who was assuming the third position, which was achieved by lowering the point with the hands while making a pass of the foot forward in transition. In his attack he led with his right leg, with his weapon pointing downward, leaving himself deceptively open, but allowed himself speed quick counter strikes.

His opponent, Brodie, moved in fourth position in defense by raising the weapon up with the shoulders. The position was both threatening and warding. The hilt could be above or in front of his collar, but not down in front of the chest while the blade was neither angled behind the head, nor held horizontal, nor resting on the shoulder. Some armor he had previously worn prevented holding the weapon above his head; hence he adopted more of a side version.

When held over the shoulder, strikes were quicker and more deceptive, but hah somewhat less range and strength, depending upon the angle and prior action. Brodie's stance could _appear_ as if the weapon he held was _behind_ his head or neck, when in fact, it was just an illusion created by a turn of his waist.

Isabella took on the fifth position across from Jerome, rotating her weapon down and to the side from above. She remembered her father teaching her that particular move when she was naught but a child, so she knew it well, or so she thought, because according to Moore, she was doing it all wrong.

"General! Mind your bearings!" he yelled, cupping his hands behind his back. "Time!"

He heard a soft groan, one that did not wish to be heard in such circumstances. He turned, finding that the cry had originated from Isabella, whose cheek had just been formally acquainted with the edge of Jerome's blade for the first time. The fact that she had been hit, proved that while the stance she took was considered menacing and deceptive, it was also somewhat inviting if not performed correctly.

She stood for a moment, feeling the cut heal beneath her fingers before straightening her posture, cracking her neck.

"General!" he yelled, noticing that Isabella had rolled her eyes at his advancement.

"The point of his sword was supposed to slant downward and behind, not off to the side, with the long edge aiming forward at the opponent, and not at the ground. If you point it toward the ground you lose the whole significance behind the move itself," he explained, resting his hands on his hips.

"Which is?" Isabella asked, raising her brow as she awaited his reply.

"The _significance_ behind such a position is to permit a strong rising cut with the long edge, causing more fatal damage to your opponent."

There was a moment of silence, followed by the sound of Isabella licking her teeth. She looked up at him with a defiant glow in her eyes. In that instant, he knew that she wasn't herself.

"You're not listening to me, are you?"

"Of course I am. You are in front of me and I can't exactly ignore you, can I? Let's get on with this," she said pointedly, turning to stretch before taking her position in front of Jerome once more.

"I think you're in need of a different opponent," Moore said after a moment.

"And who might that be?"

He unsheathed one of his swords, letting the ring of its glistening steel blade sing as it cut through the dense air below deck with precision. "Someone who is more of a challenge to steady your temper…"

She smiled, feel a spark of suspicion rise within her. "How courageous of you, Lieutenant. I'll know the truth when I hear it," she bowed to him, because she was a proper fighter, whether he thought so or not.

"That is a godly gift, General and you are no god. Rather, you are slow and sluggish," he said. "Nothing but a shadow of your former self, and you expect the face the gods in that stance? You wouldn't last a moment in the eyes of Hera."

"All sins do not go unpunished, whether it is in this life or the next," she retaliated, drawing her own weapon.

He swung his sword above his head, and she parried deflecting Moore's advance, catching his blade before it reached its target. The difference in her tactic was one of defense by counter-striking rather than a rigid blocking or direct obstruction of their sharp edge. Doing the latter would leave her vulnerable and less able to attack, along with causing extreme damage to the blade of her sword.

She avoided his blows through dodging, then deflecting his sword by hitting it away from her, then by stepping in to stifle them. She received his blade on the flat of her sword. At that moment, she looked into his eyes, and found anger and resentment in place of caring.

"Do you plot against me, James?" she asked him suddenly.

The clatter of her sword on his rang throughout the lower deck. All eyes were on them as she forced him to the wall with her sword at his neck, yet he did not tremble.

"I have given you no reason to suspect me of such treachery!"

"Do you plot against me?" she whispered through clenched teeth. "Answer me!"

His eyes grew wide with anger. "No. You dare insinuate that I am working against you after all these years of loyal servitude? I've kept your secret and held myself accountable if anything were to ever happen to you. Is that not enough?"

"And all the times you _haven't_ been by my side?"

"You were not far from my thoughts, as I'm sure I was far from yours ever since you met _Jack_!" he growled, pushing her back and he raised his sword to her.

Camron quickly noticed that their argument would escalate to a point where not even he alone could restrain the pair.

"Murphy, go get Jordan, now!" Camron ordered, pushing the young boy aside as he rushed to his general in the effort to restrain her. If anyone was going to get hurt in the heat of battle, it would be Moore.

"Jealousy brings out the monster in all of us doesn't it, James?" she asked sinisterly, feeling an irrefutable rage surge within her body, weighing heavily in her arms as she lifted her sword in defense.

"The monster that lives inside you is only imprisoned because of our power! Otherwise, you would have been dead long ago!" Moore yelled, smacking her sword out of her hands.

"Stop it!" Camron yelled at Moore, pulling Isabella's arms back as he felt her legs attempt to propel her forward.

"Your rage brews within you because of your demons, not because of me, and your anger has surpassed a point of no return. Don't let that monster get the best of you! We've fought for too long and too hard for this moment," Moore continued on despite Camron's plea, noticing that her eyes had grown wild.

Isabella struggled to become free of Camron's grasp, feeling an overwhelming and unnatural building of strength in her arms, causing her body to shake.

"_He_ wants to be freed, and is willing to be rid of you because you are _his _cage. Don't let him take you down with him," Moore whispered. His eyes grew sad from the fact that it was not the first time he had seen her act in such a manner, her body torturing her so menacingly, turning her against those who had always cared for her.

"You do not carry my burden, so it is so easy for you to speak when you do not understand what it feels like," she said in a whisper.

"Stop!" Camron yelled once more, pulling Isabella back with all his might. "Your advancements will do neither of you any good."

"Moore!" Jordan's voice called out from the stairs, his form appearing to them in an instant as he ran to Moore's side. "Everyone on deck, now!" he ordered, feeling short of breath.

Jordan sensed a bit of hesitation from the soldiers. "Go! Leave us!" he ordered once more, with more vigor than he had planned.

"When you clear your head and remember what purpose you serve, you can come find me, I refuse to fight alongside you if it is not you who is in control of your actions," Moore said evenly.

She broke free of Camron's grasp as soon as Moore exited with the others, causing her to fall forward toward Jordan.

Jordan dismissed Camron with a silent nod before taking a hold of Isabella's shoulders, shaking her for a moment, but then paused, remembering who he was dealing with.

"What's going on?" Jordan asked with a sharp tone of resentment in his voice. "Can't I leave the both of you together without one of you trying to take other's head off?"

"Apparently, you can't."

Jordan grabbed her arm and gripped it harshly. "We have a little more than week, General. Do not forget that. Whatever it is that plagues you, get rid of it. Train and do your worst on your enemies and not upon us."

"I want you to watch him," she snarled, pulling herself away from his grip.

"I will watch him and you, whether you like it or not. Now, eat something and train. You look like you haven't eaten in days."

"That's because I haven't. I don't have the stomach for food any longer."

He swallowed, slightly taken aback by her response, yet continued on out of concern for her well-being. "I will inform Cotton to scrounge up anything he can find. I'll bring it down to you myself. You need to train. I'll be back shortly."

When his footsteps grew faint upon the stairs she turned, reaching into her bodice to check her scar. She pulled out her hand after a moment of rubbing the tender wetness on her chest, raising it out before her into a shaft of bright daylight, solidifying her worst fear.

_Blood_.

'_No matter_,' she thought, licking the redness off of her fingers before picking up her sword. She must return to her arena, with face marred by dirt, sweat and blood, and if she did so, she must strive valiantly.

Her father always told her that there was no victory without errors and shortcomings, and that if she actually strove to do any deed, she must know how imperative it is that that deed must be done with great devotion, and in the end, the triumph of high achievement would be greater than any shortcoming or error that she could have caused in the process. If she was to fail, at least she would fail while daring greatly.

Funny how much of her father's words she could remember, yet should couldn't even recall his face.

'_No matter_,' she thought again. She needed to train.

---

The mysterious haze that rolled in overnight strangled the heavens, causing the sun to appear as if it were trying to burn through a fogged window; the brightness of the day was merely the glowing of the haze.

Hermes appeared within the mist, walking amidst clouds that smelled of death and fouled corpses rotting in the sun. He was neither asleep nor awake, dead or alive. The stiffness of the haze shrouded him with an uncertain mysteriousness, like a dark unknown figure lurking around a street corner.

He finally heard her voice through the mist.

"Hermes, what news do you have of our darling general?"

"Mother, I bring you word of great triumph," he boasted proudly, continuing to search for her within the clouds.

"Do you, now? Triumph will only be measured by blood and blood alone. Tell me, Hermes, have you brought me her blood? Has she fallen to her knees and begged the gods for forgiveness?"

"No, mother, but I bring something infinitely better," he said, laughing. "You see, the practical ends of this whole ordeal were conceived by you in no small-minded way. It was no less than that of making men conscious of the seeds of deception and confusion buried in the very texture of human thought."

"Go on…"

"I've become quite the gardener in your absence, my dearest. It seems to me that I've done quite a spectacular job at cultivating your work into something more sinister, because to arm our dear general against those who would use deception and confusion would be to cheat you from your happiness."

"A crime in itself…"

"So much could be learned from the intellectual armament of one set of adversaries, especially when that armament is poisoned with betrayal. The forces of revolution and anarchy grow weak, and thus, you grow stronger," he concluded.

"She grows paranoid, you say?"

"Paranoid to the highest degree of the word, mother dearest," he said with a smile. "All by my doing, of course."

"Of course, how would I be able to deny you of your rightful credit? What of her faithful companions?"

"Her men continue to comfort her, her crew grows to respect her, and one man in particular even grows to love her," he began slowly, cut off by a piercing laugh.

"How quaint…"

"Indeed, mother," he confirmed, narrowing his brow. "He grows to be an interesting pawn in this game we're playing."

"His hands will be sullied with her blood in days to come, and then there will be no need to keep him in our thoughts. Now, prepare for the arrival of your brother. You will be there when he is released into this world again."

"Released?" he asked.

"My son, you do not know the magnitude of the storm that is brewing. Wage war, and do not fail me."

"I will not, mother," he said, bowing loyally to her, elated by the thought of her addressing him as a 'son' and not a servant.

---

She escaped the dreary innards of the _Hellride_ at the sound of First Watch, creeping up the ship's stairs with fearful ease.

Her heart fluttered with each step, as every creak and moan called out her name and her purpose, causing her to instinctively peer down at her men, checking if they were still asleep after causing various combinations of noise. Any good sailor knew that word on a ship traveled faster than one might think, so it was best for her to keep quiet, especially if she were to go sneaking around late at night.

Though she pretended not to care about the events that took place earlier that day between her and James, she confessed to herself again as she appeared on the main deck that her external actions and internal sensations were two non-adjacent passages that often conflicted, disregarding knowledge and understanding for quick action followed by restitution. Even if she sought James' forgiveness, she still found her heart trembling from the notion that she had almost struck him – one of her own men.

Nevertheless, she was brought up in that manner, so there was no question as to why she sought restitution and in the end, revenge against those who had trespassed against her.

Yet, she searched to find a window by which light could flow into the dark room of her mind, for her mind was like a closet wholly shut from light, with only some little opening left to let in a few chosen faces and ideas from the external world.

At that moment, she could only find one solution, returning to the only man that could possibly confirm her hope that when his face came into such a dark room it would stay.

With that in her mind, she reached out to the door of his cabin, nudging it open to find that the room was very well lit, and that her fine mahogany desk and table were still adorned with countless books, candles and maps of an unknown source or nature. The clash of pure darkness and candlelight smudged the appearance of her large windows, making her white lace curtains almost undetectable as they delicately reflected the moon's iridescent light.

Then she found him, sitting leisurely with one foot resting upon a chair in front of him, and the other along the edge of the chart table. He was utterly absorbed with one of his books, biting the skin around his thumb as a small smirk tugged at the corner of his lip.

She cleared her throat, making her presence known, causing the trinkets in his hair to jingle as his head shot up from his reading, eyes meeting with hers in a sinful gaze.

"Didn't know we were making this into a nightly ritual, Bella, but who am I to complain?" he said with a smile, closing his book as he placed it on his lap.

She rolled her eyes. "I didn't come here for that."

"I know it's not what you've come for, but there's no harm in asking," he said persuasively, leaning forward in his chair as he kicked another out in front of him for Isabella to sit on, blushing away any dust or sand from his boots.

"I haven't seen your face all day, which is a truly saddening notion, love. There must be a reason as to why you've decided to show yourself now, out of all times of day."

She nodded slowly, averting her eyes to the ground for a moment before stepping toward him.

He patted the seat softly with his palm before leaning back on his own chair. "Let's have it then."

"It's James…" she said, sighing as she sat down. "He hasn't been normal since we left port."

"The man does have an odd sense of normality about him. A treacherous one, I'd wager," he replied grimly, raising his brow.

"That's what I'm afraid of," she said quickly, rubbing her hands together.

Jack instinctively reached for a bottle of rum that was resting on the table beside him, uncorking it with his teeth, and handed it to her.

"You look tired, Bella."

She took a small sip, running her fingers through her hair. "I can't sleep, and I have been in the company of my sword all day. I fear that there has been a plot established against me, and I can't tell whether James is telling me truth anymore. Perhaps, I wish that he _was_ plotting against me, so at least I'd know who it was."

"Plot against you?" he asked, curling his lip as he felt his pulse quicken. "Why would you think such a thing?"

She gulped, knowing that she could not reveal the entire truth, or how absurd she was for letting Hermes' words lodge themselves deep within her mind. "Rumors," she answered vaguely.

"Rumors, aye? You know what they say about rumors, Bella?"

She shook her head, taking another sip of rum to even her thoughts.

"That they grow thicker as they're spread. Unfortunately, it's something that all men hear, traveling through the wind to signal when a storm is drawing near or like the rolling of the ocean beneath our feet."

"That's all fine and dandy, Jack, but it still doesn't explain his behavior with me! I swear it's like I can't read him anymore," she said, leaning back on her chair.

"Listen, when somebody tries to read up on what somebody else is doing, he or she winds up reading the results of the last time somebody else tried to read up on that person, which was the result of somebody else trying to read up on the same person as well. It all depends upon the intent of your figuring, and what sort of information you expect to pass on."

"I'm not trying to '_read up_' on him," she countered, finding that her words would go to no avail as he continued on. "And now, my men look at me in a different light because I cannot handle my anger, for reasons I do not wish to speak of."

"Fair enough, but if you expect to pass on a point of view which you've gleaned from somebody else's gleaning of other gleanings that originated from other person's gleaning, then you, yourself, are not going to envision the whole picture," he explained.

She narrowed her brow, taking a larger swig of rum in the hopes that it would help her better understand his logic.

"You know, the only thing you're really qualified to '_read up on_' is what you saw below decks today," he went on, licking his lips.

"So, you're saying that I shouldn't judge him just from what someone else has told me. Sounds logical enough, although logic does seem to get eagerly thrown out the window when the occasion arises," she said, chuckling.

He smiled, taking the bottle from her as he took her hand in his. "Aye, without regurgitating somebody else's swill, but do what you want. If you've come here to seek words that will solidify any justification for your inclinations, love, then you've stumbled into the wrong cabin," he replied, lightly kissing her fingers as he noticed a slight resistance to his rationalizations.

"That's reassuring…" she said sarcastically, enjoying the warmth of his hands and lips.

"No one's going to hurt you," he finally said, with all of the simplicity he could muster, but it was as if he was trying to convince himself. Never would he have imagined that their actions would have gone as far as they did the previous evening, though he would not deny the fact that he wanted it. It surely must have meant something if she had returned to him, and that he was genuinely pleased to see her return to him as well.

She smiled, suppressing her fears for a moment as she felt his lips linger. "So, what were you smiling at before? Is it something you'd be willing to share?" she asked, pointing at his book.

"Ah! Now, I'm sure someone of your intellect would enjoy this," he stated. "Come here, love. Let dear ol' Jack help you feel better." He chuckled, pulling the book off of his lap, inviting her to take its place, and she did with very little hesitation. "That's a good girl."

She fixed her array of skirts, patting them down as she felt his arm gently wrap itself around her shoulder. He held the book up with one hand in front of them both, clearing his throat as he continued to read on from where he left off as she sat quietly.

"Experience--and no matter what they say  
In books--is good enough authority  
For me to speak of trouble in marriage.  
For ever since I was twelve years of age,  
Thanks be to God, I've had no less than five  
Husbands at church door--if one may believe  
I could be wed so often legally!"

His utterly enthusiastic retelling caused her to laugh, as she watched his arms gesture exaggeratedly in unison. His face lit up with every passing sentence, imitating each tone of voice and illustrating beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was a true showman.

"Saucy little wench, aye? She's had five husbands, all at the church door, apart from all the other company she might have had in her youth," he furthered, smiling wickedly.

"Her family probably ran out of dowry by the time she was on her third husband," she joked, nudging him with her elbow.

"I'm sure she found other means of supporting her various _endeavors_," he observed, raising a brow. "She was a Wife of Bath, after all. Besides, the men of Bath always seemed to have something else on their mind other than their wives… including a mistress here and there, along with their share of cheap prostitutes of the male and female persuasion."

"An absolutely scandalous notion, Captain Sparrow!" she exclaimed, playfully placing a hand in front of her mouth.

"My apologies, it was absolutely improper and terribly inappropriate for me to even utter such things in front of a lady such as yourself," he cooed, grinning as he leaned his head back on his chair.

"Although, I always imagined English gentry enjoying the most fashionable dances in assembly rooms they would visit in towns when on holiday or business - whether it be promiscuous business or not. Then again, there's nothing wrong with having a bit of experience, I must say," she retorted, matching his grin with her own.

"There's absolutely nothing wrong with it, love. I couldn't agree with you more concerning the idea of proper experience, no matter how much scandal would arise from it," he affirmed.

"Will you read me some more, Jack?" she asked, smiling.

"How could I refuse?" he replied, placing the book in her hands as he flipped through a handful of pages to another one of his favorite passages.

"I only preach of avarice and the like,  
And in this way induce them to be free  
In giving cash--especially to me.  
Because my only interest is in gain;  
I've none whatever in rebuking sin.  
No, none! When they are pushing up the daises…"

"'_Their souls, for all I care, can go to blazes!_'" she exclaimed as she read on, laughing at the implication of such a passage. "Well, that's not very kind!"

"More truth about man in that section than any other book I've read thus far. A sad realization, so to speak, but it plagues us all, Bella. No need beating about the proverbial bush in light of not wanting or needing to face the reality of things."

"Surely it can't be that disheartening…" she said, lightly resting her head against his.

"Not to those like us," he began softly, pointing a knowing finger. "I thought you'd know it from experience by now. Mankind tied up and knotted with marionette strings, always bending to another's will – we don't see it that way, nor would we want to."

Curious, was what he felt, turning himself from his book to face the woman, suddenly feeling warmth in his heart as she choose to smile at him. He felt an uncharacteristic shyness about her, while all he could feel seemed like a fire in the pit of his stomach. Affection was what he received, feeling her lips search for his, and for a sense of unity.

She heard the book fall from his fingers as their lips finally collided, causing his fingers to transfer their focus to the skin of her face, and she couldn't help but return the sentiment with her own fingers.

He broke away from her for a moment, biting her lip gingerly. "Now, as for that ritual…" he stated evenly, softening his expression as he saw her pain pass slowly, allowing the suspicious glint to fade from her eyes. She let his gaze trap her with silent words so captivating that she didn't stand a chance.

"You know, I'm not one for starting bad habits, Jack," she stated, smirking.

"That's a shame really, because by my reckoning, I certainly am one for starting them."

---

**A/N 2**: The two passages that Jack reads to Isabella are taken from **Chaucer's Canterbury Tales**: "_The Wife of Bath_" prologue and "_The Pardoner_" tale.


	25. Revelation

**A/N**: Chapters 25 and 26 are the chapters that inspired this entire story a little less than a year ago. Hang onto your hats!

This is rated M, seriously. ;)

Enjoy!

* * *

_**Chapter 25 – Revelation**_

---

Since the beginning of human existence, there has been one practice, one instinct, and one single obsession that man cannot escape. Some may call it necessary; others say it's a gift. It can be controlling, enlightening but powerful. It isn't the need for food, safety or shelter. It isn't love nor greed nor vanity, but sex.

Since the evolution of human communication, poets have been using the power of words to describe the practice of sex, and the emotions that come with it. They studied the marvel of a woman's pleasure, and the pleasure of a woman that enjoyed the awe that came with the combination of flesh and sweat, just as her companion did.

Perhaps, they were writing of her as if she were a long lost muse, never to be denied the right to unleash her zealous nature, documenting her every move, and depicting her every thought so that each successive lover through time could continue to satisfy her.

Jack tossed the thought around in his mind as she mounted him, letting his fingers trickle down the contours of her body, tracing beads of sweat over the mounds of her breasts, lean muscle of her abdomen, and tender skin of her neck. She shivered at the frigidness of his ring-clad hands, biting her lip as he continued on charting a course along her gooseflesh, and smiling ever so wickedly.

She was a woman that could meet his every desire, rival his own lust, and cause new wants and needs to sprout from uncultivated soil within cloaked territories of his subconscious.

_"Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night," _he thought, pressing her body against his to warm his chest. Perhaps, her dear friend Shakespeare did know something of her that she never wished to reveal.

With each small tug of her hips, she explored a world where pleasure was expressed through poetry from a multitude of cultures and eras. She pushed away from his chest, arching her back as she continued her careful but meticulous work, letting it become apparent that the traditions and values of multiple societies had shaped her form, right down to the style of language and words she whispered in his ear.

Jack closed his eyes, pondering once more. _"If love withholds its strengthening care, the lover is left like a bird without care; the lover is left like a bird without wings." _Did Rumi speak of her as well? How her absence throughout the rest of his days plagued him so that it left him as a bird without wings? Jack certainly hoped not – a free-spirited Sparrow could not be left without wings. Surely, she would not see fit to part from him in such a way.

The curves of her body were a piece of delicate prose representing the many respective eras of practice and knowledge, and he could not help but want more. He turned her, tossing her down to the bed beside him with definitive force, causing her to tumble onto her back so he could finally take charge, astounded that he had to now fight for the dominant position. She smiled as the cords of his hair grazed her chest, and he could not help but whisper her name as she moaned for him to release her. He let his lips touch hers gently within candlelit shadows, lingering for just a moment; it was in her nature to fight him as it was in his to coax her.

It was a game, one in which both wished to conquer one another and ultimately win the upper hand while the other begged to be given another chance. She found herself smiling as she teased her way through the maze of his body, kissing his most horrid scars and the outlines of each finely drawn tattoo.

The labyrinth of his flesh was beautifully lean from his many years of labor at sea. His shirt and breeches only allowed a few choice areas of deeply tanned skin to entice the eyes of those who might decide to gaze at him from afar, but she discovered that he was deliciously pale as milk in his most secret of places.

He paused for a moment, smirking before he took her lips once more. _"O, thou art fairer than the evening air clad in the beauty of a thousand stars__**.**__"_ Jack wouldn't have been surprised if Christopher Marlowe had known her as well, and if he had written secret manuscripts of her that had to be hidden away due to their lustful nature.

Then he bit his lip, rethinking his assumptions for a moment as he looked into her eyes. None of those inexperienced, insignificant and arrogant ninnies would have known what to do with a woman of her nature. They wrote of great love, but never had the gall to touch a woman, favoring the forbidden caresses of a firmer and more masculine source, by his reckoning.

They both shuddered at the feeling of their intense lovemaking, feeling that they were both close to their breaking points as they embodied their heartfelt movements with passionate virtuosity. In one full sweep, their longing for release was granted just moments before the sound of eight chiming bells, signaling for Morning Watch.

The pair prayed for their days to pass quickly aboard the _Hellride_, and longed to join together again under the faintest of moonlight, making each encounter more prurient than the last.

At the sound of First Watch, she would sneak into his cabin to spend a few wondrous hours within the warmth of his arms, but she was quickly reminded of her duties and responsibilities when the Morning Watch was called. With a weary groan, she would return below decks as if their passionate endeavors had ever occurred, though she was not unsatisfied.

She had to agree that he was certainly the type of man that could start the worst of habits, and she could not deny the fact that she enjoyed every moment of it.

The very last night before reaching the island of Guadeloupe, Isabella brushed through the thin lace curtain of Jack's cabin to find that he lying face down on his bed, whining about some sort of back pain that caused him to suffer throughout the day.

"What ails you, Jack?" she asked, straddling the small of his back. She was ready to offer him any form of comfort - whatever he may have desired. He wiggled his shoulders around a bit, indicating that he would be much obliged if she gave him anything her hands were willing to offer to alleviate the pain.

"I'm getting old, Bella," he began, sliding his arms beneath his pillow, grunting as she began massaging his back. "At twenty, I used to worry about what others thought of me: about riches, titles, duties, and the occasional salty wench. I used to think of how many of those things I could acquire and how long me body could handle said acquiring. Now, at thirty-nine, I've discovered that I've never really cared about what others thought of me at all, and I presume that at sixty, I'll realize that I haven't been thinking about meself in the first place."

She nodded her head in understanding, even if he couldn't see her. "In spite even of your sorrow, one cannot remain alive long past the usual date of disintegration if one is unafraid of change. You're already insatiable in intellectual curiosity, interested in big things, but you lack happiness in small ways," she said, attempting to offer him a bit of advice. She kept her strokes soft and flowing, using the flat of her hands to caress, slither, and slide all over his body.

"Happiness in small ways?" he asked curiously.

"Aye, in small ways," she said, brushing several cords from his hair to the side to place a small kiss on his brow. "I've lived my life chasing after big things while neglecting all the small things that would have kept me sane. You're going down the same path that I once traveled, and you wish that your prayers will be answered by a superficial coat of immortality, as if it would solve your problems."

"That is not my reasoning, love. One of these days, I'm going to blink and wake up alone in bed on my fiftieth birthday, wondering where my thirties went. I'll blink again and find myself lame, unable to walk from the pain in my knees or the stiffness of my back. I will be unable to fornicate or move at all, a shadow of the glory that was my former self. What an idle fantasy it is to expect to die of the decaying of your own body brought on by old age, and I am to accept it as if it were bloody customary."

"Do not fret, Sparrow. Your worries are the same worries as every man, but here you are and here I am. Your fantasies of everlasting life have brought you to this point. Now, look to me as your guide, for I plan to wage war between worlds of the living and the dead while I cannot call myself one or the other," she said passionately, taking in a deep breath to compose herself.

"Yet, I look back to all the small things with regret, because I was never able to see them until it was too late. The more I lament living, the more the gods choose to keep me alive. That is my battlefield and my sorrow, because I never wanted to fight in the first place. In the end, it was my destiny."

Jack smiled. "I do not lament living, but you call it natural, as if it were contrary to nature to see a man break his neck by a fall, drowned in a shipwreck, or snatched away by the plague or pleurisy. I'll not flatter meself with fine and elegant words, hailing it as natural, general, common, or universal to want to die."

"And you should not," she said quickly. "Death of old age is a rare and extraordinary death, and hence less natural than the others you've so graciously pointed out. It is the last and ultimate sort of death, but you must recognize that it's an extraordinary fortune, and one that is out of the usual, like the fortune that is keeping you going. If you continue on your journey being at one with yourself and your future, it is due to help you last much longer."

She stretched the tissue of his back, releasing tension from the deepest of muscles. Jack let out a pleasurable grunt from his lips as she continued on with larger, but softer fanning strokes, attempting to relax him with a most euphoric effect. Her hands slid over his skin, encompassing the contours of his form with sufficiently nimble fingers to melt and mold into the shape of his body.

"Feeling better?" she asked, moving her hands in smaller strokes while applying a small degree of pressure as she moved up to his shoulders.

He did not answer; instead he simply shifted himself beneath the sheets and closed his eyes, reaching out for her to pull her down to the cool mattress beside him.

"Stay with me tonight," he whispered, pressing her back against his chest.

"The whole night?" she asked softly, feeling him nestle his head within the crook of her neck.

"Aye, the whole night. Would you be opposed to it?" he inquired, raising his brow.

"Not if you leave me a sufficient amount of room this time. I know you're not used to sharing the entirety of your bed, _Prince _Jack," she joked, shifting her arm beneath the pillow.

"I don't believe there's anything wrong with a man wanting to share his bed with a woman such as yourself. In fact, I'd consider them absolute madmen if they were opposed to such an opportunity," he said, letting his fingers trace delicate circles around her waist.

"Don't rule out the fact that he might have been a eunuch."

"Ah! How could I have forgotten?" he said, moving his lips to her ear. "Besides, I believe that I've grown accustomed to your company, as it were."

She smiled. "Have you?"

"Perhaps … Only a little," he said, instinctively letting his pride correct the true meaning of his statement.

---

The wind blew gently along the outskirts of the ship's windows. The temperature was warm and soothing due to Jack's natural heat which stirred lingering sensations upon her skin and within her. As she laid in silence, she was able to recognize not only the wind's direction, but intensity, and how it would be masked by his soft breathing and occasional snore. When she finally closed her eyes, she lost consciousness, yet continued to be who she was in her dreams.

Even with her presence, Jack could not fall into a restful sleep. Instead, he found himself within a dream of his own, somewhere where he had never been before. In the middle of nowhere, but very close to where he needed to be, while not so far away from where he was once before. To the curious observer, he was lost, but he knew exactly where he was going.

In his mind, he saw green bushes and trees, rocks and vines, feeling the sand beneath his feet lead him to a place of secrecy. As he drew closer to his destination, an overwhelming feeling of emptiness overcame him, shifting uncomfortable sensations deep within the pit of his stomach, and he could not stop it.

The movement of his body was sluggish and not defined by steady or gradual steps, but progressing to move forward by growth, feeling himself age with every step. Yet, he still found himself at a crossroads, empty and unable to move as if life itself was being sucked out from deep within him.

He looked down at his hands, finding that they were gradually withering before his eyes, wrinkling until it was naught but ash floating through the jungle's cool breeze.

The notion startled him to a breathless reawakening, causing him to rise from his bed and wipe stray droplets of sweat from his forehead as he moved into the main cabin.

He shifted a candle toward the chart table, setting aside numerous charts until he found the one he was searching for. The map had been damaged by seawater from early on in their journey, but it still held together enough so that he could slightly adjust the dials to their proper position.

There was a name on that very map, a name that he had seen and read one-hundred times before, but found it of no importance until that very moment.

"Ponce de León, 1513," he whispered, returning to his bed, and softly shaking Isabella awake.

She groaned, covering her eyes with her hands. "What is it, Jack?"

"Ponce de León. Why did you not tell him of the location of the fountain?"

"Why would you want to know about that?"

"Clearly, at the very least, you made him look like a delusional fool, and I'm simply looking out for my best interests. I have a reputation to uphold, do I not?"

"You have many reputations to uphold," she said smiling. "_Juan_ was not a man like you, Jack. Incidentally, he was a man of science along with adventure. He intended on offering those who drank from the fountain to the great minds of Europe to be studied and dismembered, parading what was left around like a strange caged beast, and solidifying that being immortal was equivalent to being an outcast and nothing more. Do you honestly think that I would tell him a damn thing after he told me that?"

"So, you did not tell him that it was you, did you?"

"Never," she confirmed.

The sound of eight bells disturbed the silent tranquility of the ship. It was a signal for Jack to leave the comforts of his bed in order to fulfill his duties.

Gliding his fingers along her face, he kissed her softly. "I'll come for you in the morning. Stay here and keep me bed warm while I'm away."

Jack left the cabin and was shutting the door softly behind him when he ran into Ragetti, who had just completed his watch.

"Good 'morrow, Cap'n," Ragetti greeted before heading down the companionway to his bunk.

Jack nodded a response, stopping just short of the quarterdeck stairway.

"Mister Ragetti."

"Aye, Cap'n?"

"What would you give a woman that, let's say, you were courting as a token of your affections?"

"Well, fo' what occasion, sir? If you don't min' me askin'."

"Oh, no particular occasion…" he said, flicking his wrist as he shrugged his shoulders.

"Ya could always try flowers as an unexpected gift… high marks fo' emotional impact," Ragetti suggested with a small smile.

Jack looked around the ship for a moment. "Say you do not possess the, er … resources for acquiring said flowers?" he asked, noticing that Ragetti seemed a bit confused by his inquisition. "Would you happen to have something on your person to show as an example for a more proper gift?"

"I might 'ave one item o' interest, sir… if ya jus' give me a moment," he said, making his way down the companionway to his bunk.

Jack waited for several moments, listening to the lanky pirate shift through his belongings until he heard a grunt of approval escape his lips.

Ragetti raced up the companionway, handing Jack a small, but cumbersome object. "'Ere ya go, sir! Thought I'd ne'er find it!"

Jack studied the object in his hand, bringing it up to his mouth to bite it gingerly. Letting the teeth of the crafted object prick his tongue, he realized that it was naught but a hair comb, possibly made of silver. "What is this?"

"Why, it's a ladies comb, sir. To make their hair nice-lookin' an' such…"

"I know that," Jack said quickly, "but why have you given it to me?"

"Beggin' yer pardon, but it's all I've got, sir. I pilfered it off a mighty fine woman last time we were in Port Royal. She was quite fashionable beauty wit' 'em little delicate curls on 'er forehead and tha rest o' 'er hair was swept up inta a high twist…"

Jack thought for a moment, weighing the object in his hand. "Perhaps, this would be of greater use to someone with a more substantial amount of hair, unlike yourself," he said, turning to head back to his cabin. "A suggestion for you my one-eyed friend, next time we are in Port Royal, I would pilfer something with a bit more substance or value."

"Where are ya goin', sir? I'm gonna need that back!"

"Do not fret, Mister Ragetti. I am simply borrowing it with all intension of giving it back at an undisclosed time."

Ragetti paused for a moment, fidgeting his fingers. "Are you going to give it to Miss Isabella? That's awful kind of ya, sir. I wouldn't mind if she kept it, if ya were intendin' on givin' it to 'er, o' course…"

Jack turned, retracing his steps to the pirate. "Do not tell a soul."

"I won't, promise," Ragetti said, shaking his head.

Ragetti's promise would go to no avail seeing that most of the crew had figured out where Isabella would sneak off to at night, and it certainly wasn't because she needed a breath of night air. Jack had not taken into account that the ship was small, significantly smaller than the _Pearl_ and that word of such a thing would travel faster than he could have imagined. He had also forgotten to take into account that the crew knew what affect he had on women, and that it was no real secret. Nevertheless, Ragetti decided that it was best not to cross his captain in his current … state.

---

"Land, ho!"

The bellows of joy caused Isabella to shift awake from her sleep. Her heart raced as she tumbled out of bed to slip on her boots along with her old shirt and breeches so she could head out and help the crew drop anchor.

Within her rush, she did not expect to stop just short of the chart table, finding a silver hair comb and a small piece of parchment tucked beneath it. She narrowed her brow, taking the note from beneath the comb, and opening it to reveal its contents.

_Bella,_

_Last night, I buried my nose within a sea of your curls, and wanted to sleep forever. _

_Tame them, or it will be highly unlikely that my crew will see my face again. _

_~J_

She smiled. "That man's a bloody mystery, he is…"

Jack's scribble looked to be rushed, but the sentiment was still there. She took a few moments to pass the comb through her tangled locks until she could pass her fingers through them with ease as she exited the cabin.

The vessel neared the island of Guadeloupe with a light breeze, clear sky, and studding-sails out, alow and aloft, while before it was a long line of heavy black clouds lying like a bank upon the water. As they drew near, the crew started taking in sail after sail, until their speed was significantly reduced.

She found Jack at the helm, giving orders to his crew of men who were scampering around on the main deck attempting to fulfill their various duties.

"You said you'd come for me?" she asked, tucking her shirt in her breeches.

"Ah! Miss Bella, did I really? Because it seems to me that a good helmsman would know exactly what time to get up off his or her arse and get to work," he said, ushering her to the wheel.

Looking out beyond the bowsprit of the _Hellride_, she noticed that the sky above them became cloudy, the sea high, and everything had the appearance of the departure or arrival of a storm. It was blowing no more than a stiff breeze, yet the wind made an ugly choppy sea, which heaved and pitched the vessel about.

Jack nonchalantly dragged his fingers through her hair before heading down to the main deck, and smiled with obvious approval. She smiled back, letting him know that she was thankful before he took his leave.

Pintel had been at work on the topgallant yard, said that his stomach felt disagreeable with him the whole time, and was glad when his job was done, getting down upon the firm deck once more. Ragetti was sent up to the mast-head, staying nearly an hour, but slowly started to show signs of sickness as well.

The work had to be done, so Jack sent Murphy up, and he did very well for some time. He kept his place, and did not come down until he had gotten through his work, which was more than several hours.

The ship certainly never acted so badly before. She was pitched and jerked about in all manner of ways; the sails seemed to have no steadying power over her. The tapering points of the mast made various curves and angles against the sky overhead, and sometimes, coming up with a jerk which made it necessary for the crew to hold on with both hands, then swept off into another irregular curve.

Murphy was not positively sick, and came down with a look of indifference, yet was not unwilling to get upon the comparative terra firma of the deck. Murphy looked up at the quarterdeck where Isabella stood confidently behind the helm, smiling down at him. The young man's chest swelled with pride, feeling that he had finally found his calling.

A few hours more carried them through to the outskirts of the island, and nothing was talked about but getting in; where they should make land, and whether they would find the Fountain before nightfall. The weather had cleared, leaving the bank of dark stormy clouds astern, making the men more cheerful. Gibbs and Jack had begun laying out a plan together for their time on shore.

The crew had their hearts set upon planting their feet on shore before night, but the tide was beginning to run strong against them, and the wind, or what there was of it, caused them to make little progress with weather-bowing the tide. Though, Jack was relentless, ordering the crew to drop anchor and overhaul the chain. Murtogg and Mullroy assisted in clewing the topsails, and they let go of the anchor.

In half an hour, they were lying snugly with all sails furled, safe along the shorelines of Guadeloupe; their long journey had ended.

---

The crews of the _Black Pearl_ and the _Hellride_ became acquainted with the wooded areas and the swampy coastal trees of the island fairly quickly with Isabella leading the way. She, Barbossa and Jack would stop periodically to ensure that their men were all together and journeying along the same path.

The place was vibrant with rain forest trees which ranged from harmless to the poisonous, causing the crew to travel with a sharp eye on their surroundings. They did not express caution when they stepped over ferns, creepers, and orchids, instead they ignored their beauty. The island seemed as though it had benefited from the perpetual spring, and only Isabella noticed its vivacious scenery. The savanna region was covered with high crippled trees of wild pineapples, moss and lichen, all green and fresh. The flowers, birds and Zephyrs most definitely highlighted their surroundings.

The island mimicked the world that surrounded it. Native papaya and coconut grew high atop the island's trees, litchis from China, carambole from Indonesia, guava and avocado from Brazil, along with plums of Polynesia. All these items would have never been found on these lands some hundred years earlier.

The indigenous flowers of the region caused wonderful sensations in their nostrils, making the men even more appreciative to be on land than before.

"We're gettin' close, I can feel it in me bones!" Ragetti exclaimed, shaking with anticipation.

"The immortal Pintel and Ragetti! I sure like the sound o' that!" Pintel replied, smiling happily as he cut his way through branches of vegetation.

"Do ya like it betta than 'Pintel and Ragetti: the Kraken slayers'?"

"Even betta than that!"

After ushering all the men to the front, Jack and Isabella found themselves behind the large group, walking side by side and deep within their own conversation. "So, why is it that the gods decided to put the Fountain on an island such as this?"

"I suppose they're running of out uninhabited lands to choose from. I've watched the world grow smaller and it has been moved from place to place throughout my years of existence. The gods cannot afford having every living being drink from it, then we'd become too powerful for their liking," she explained, stepping over several large roots from overhanging trees.

"Aye, but there is always an overabundance of mythical and extraordinary tales to these occurrences, are there not?" he asked, cupping his hands behind his back.

"Absolutely, though this one does not have anything whimsical of that nature. This tale is really the same story as mine except it had all to do with vanity and beauty and none to do with honor."

"Furthermore solidifying that we are not creatures of logic, and are driven by pride," Jack offered.

"A true notion, to say the least. It is said that the goddess Psyche, who was, in fact, not a goddess at the time of this story was first told, was an absent minded follower of the Fountain in order to boast that she was much more beautiful than Aphrodite herself," she said, turning to him. She noticed that he was listening to her quite intently.

"The tale of Psyche, which I will not go into, is fairly a long and complicated, but Aphrodite sent Eros to transfix her with an arrow of desire and make her fall in love with the nearest person or thing available at the time."

"A rational solution, I suppose," he said, twitching his nose.

"Well, so they thought, but even Eros fell in love with her, so things did not exactly go according to plan. He took her to a secret place and eventually married her and asked Zeus to make her a goddess."

"Ah, the Fountain," he concluded with a smile.

"Aye, he took her to the origin of the perpetual springs, and made her his own for eternity. By then, it was evident that the other gods did not approve of Eros' decision of revealing to the location to a mere mortal, especially one that liked to talk as much as she," she added quickly. "And with that, the moving had begun, and will most likely continue after we leave this rock."

"You said that your story was similar to hers, yet I see no similarity, considering that you are free from all dishonest deeds or thought of vanity," he said, motioning to her attire.

"If I were to have succeeded in my conquest, then I was to be married in order to be made into a goddess," she said softly.

Jack paused for a moment, pursing his lips. "To whom?"

"To Hermes."

After a few moments of silent grimacing on Jack's part, the pair began to hear harsh bellows from deep within the trees.

"We've been searchin' fo' hours, an' we still haven't found a bloody thing!" Pintel exclaimed.

"Aye, we were told that the item on the charts was 'ere!" said Marty, folding his arms across his chest.

"Walk the plank!" screeched Cotton's parrot.

"Where's that ruddy ol' wench anyway?" asked Pintel.

Pintel's words did not go unnoticed, Jordan and Moore quickly surrounded the man, both grabbing a fist full of his shirt.

"What did you call her?" Moore asked, feeling his blood boil because of the insufferable pirate.

As the heated discussion continued, Ragetti found himself in need of a rest, and took up a spot upon a fairly large rock covered with soft vines that had wrapped themselves along its surface. He rested his head toward the center, brushing the vines away when their leaves prickled the side of his face.

Ragetti continued to brush away more vines after a moment, looking down at the rock's exposed surface with a wide eye.

"Oi! I think I found somethin'!" Ragetti exclaimed, waving his arms at the group of men.

The words caused Jack to come to a startling halt, rounding his hips as he saw Isabella's face light up with anticipation. He, however, was not thrilled at all by the discovery, because he knew the sequence of events that would soon follow.

In his last few moments alone with her he lightly grabbing Isabella's arm, turning her to him. "Hold on a moment there!" Jack said.

"What's wrong?"

"You know, Bella, have I not told you how your presence is truly a treasure beyond worth?" he said seriously.

"Jack, maybe it would be best if we discussed this later. Perhaps, in a more private setting?" she said, attempting to escape his grasp to move forward toward the group.

"Don't, wait!"

The urgency of his voice caused her to stop. "Jack, what's gotten into you?"

"Nothing," he said. "Nothing at all, I just don't think we should go any further… Perhaps, this was all too soon, and too sudden. As you've said, it was a fool's folly for Eros to divulge the Fountain's secret. The fountain is not going anywhere, Bella. It'll be best to enjoy our moments together before…"

She was baffled, and her crinkled face made that point visible. "Before what? Jack, you've been waiting for this moment your whole life. What would make you want to turn back now?"

He paused. "I just-"

"Aye, Jack, we've all been waitin' a very long time fer this. It'd be best fer ye if ye were ta keep movin' forward, and not ta be wastin' Miss Isabella's time," Barbossa interjected, pushing Jack forward as he walked by.

Apparently, the pair had failed to notice Barbossa's presence after they ushered the rest of the men forward, and Jack truly regretted not keeping a watchful eye on the old rogue, but could not express why. They quickly made their way through the crowd to find Ragetti near a large boulder in their path.

"It's got somethin' on it, some sort o' drawin in tha center…" he attempted to explain breathlessly.

"A chalice beneath a tree … in the center," she explained, crouching to brush aside a sea of vines to reveal the small drawing. "Good eye, Ragetti."

He smiled happily, turning to Pintel. "They say when ya lose one part of yer body, another part of ya gets stronger," he said pointing to his eye patch with pride.

"Oh, shut it!" Pintel exclaimed, hitting the back of Ragetti's head.

Isabella lifted herself up from her toes and began to run forward into the brush. "This way! Keep up!"

"What in the blazes?" Barbossa muttered.

The group looked at one another quite baffled. "Well, go on, you heard what she said, gents!" Jack finally exclaimed, urging them to rush along behind the woman.

Running for what seemed like miles, she dodged under low branches and around larges rocks and tall grasses, hoping that her men would keep up with her pace. She kept on moving, letting her legs propel her forward as her body began to feel sickly from her run.

She was in the middle of nowhere, but very close to where he needed to be, while not so far away from where he was once before. To the curious observer, she was lost, but she knew exactly where she was going.

Finally, her flight came to an end at a very large reddish tree in the center of a clearing with slightly drooping branches that shaded the area. The bark was extraordinarily thick from its years of existence, and quite soft with a bright red-brown exterior. The roots were overgrown, twisting out of the ground as if it were a creature frozen in the act of stalking an unknown prey.

She placed her hand on the shadowy red bark, noticing that her hand had begun to wrinkle from the tree's presence. Retracting her hand, she began to scream.

"Over here!" she yelled, waving her arms. "Beneath the tree!"

The redness of the tree's bark symbolized that the gates of the source were tinged with the blood of those who preferred certain death through the passing time, and served as the point of separation between decrepitude and revitalization. Her passage permitted the immortal fairness of the deities who depended upon the gifts of the Fountain to maintain the tenuous illusion of a golden age of youth, incarnated already in her troublesome tale.

Hearing the rustle of leaves and the approach of familiar voices, she made her descent within the cavern beneath the tree's majestic roots, crawling forward until she found herself falling to a dark passageway beneath the surface.

"Where'd she go?" Moore asked breathlessly as he reached the clearing.

"Down here! Do not touch the tree, it will drain the life from you with no remorse!" she yelled once more.

The men approached the very base of the tree, heeding her words as they cautiously drew near, peering down into the hole where Isabella's voice had come from.

"A tree of death," Jack said, placing his hands on his hips.

"A guardian o' the gates, I'd reckon," said Ragetti, stepping back from the roots.

"Orders, Cap'n?" Gibbs asked.

"We'll be needin' rope, I'm sure none of us'll survive a fall of that nature," Barbossa said.

"Aye, rope it is," Jack agreed, nodding his head over to Cotton, who was carrying a few supplies from the ship.

Tying the rope around a smaller tree's trunk, the men made their way down to the gates of the Fountain via the dreary and desolate passageway.

"Light!" Barbossa said to Cotton, who quickly lit a small lantern to illuminate their way.

Beyond the gates, they stumbled upon a grotto and followed its winding path to the find a room covered in total darkness. The cave was silent, as if it were listening very closely to its invaders, who were, almost without exception, embodiments of blindness, selfishness, and cruelty. In their cognitive domains, they sought to enlighten themselves from the effects of the eternal waters, or so they hoped.

Isabella moved forward, taking the lantern from Cotton as she held her arms out in front of her to find the very end of the passageway.

When her fingers met the slimy rock surface, she placed the lantern on the floor beside her, and searched her pockets for her dagger.

"Aqua vitae, quod incepimus conficiemus," she whispered, slicing the edge of her scar open and smearing her blood upon the rock as she let the dagger fall to the floor.

Her pain was masked by a foreign rumble before her, causing her and the group of men behind her to step back as the boulder began to move to the side, leaving just a small slither of space for the invaders to climb through.

As they all did their best to squeeze through the opening, they came to a harsh revelation within.

There she was, standing before them in all her glory: _la fontaine_, the perpetual chalice of youth and health, the greatest swag in all the land, and the answer to all their prayers.

And she was empty.

---

_**Latin Translation**_: "Aqua vitae, quod incepimus conficiemus" – Water of life, what we have begun, we will finish.


	26. Martyr

**A/N**: The chapter that started it all! A special thanks goes out to **Nytd** for pushing me to go farther with this chapter! I really appreciate all your motivation! :)

**Warning: Character Death(s)**

**Enjoy!**

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* * *

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**Chapter 26 – Martyr**

"_Someday you too will know my pain,  
and smile it's black-tooth grin."_

_**Megadeth**_

---

_There she was, standing before them in all her glory: la fontaine, the perpetual chalice of youth and health, the greatest swag in all the land, and the answer to all their prayers._

_And she was empty. _

_--  
_

If there was ever a moment that reminded each and every man in the Fountain's presence that aging was an inevitable occurrence, it was that.

Mankind could not keep the sun from setting, or the flowers from fading. Neither could they arrest the passage of time which was making them older second by second.

With each step toward the dark and empty rock ruin, they were reminded that their time was diminishing temporally, leaving them less and less time in the realm of the living.

The pirates skeptically peered down into the empty pool beneath the rock.

"This is it?" Pintel asked quietly, raising his brow.

"Doesn't look like no Fountain of Youth to me," said Marty, folding his arms across his chest.

"Looks mo' like a pile of ol' ruddy rocks!" Pintel exclaimed.

"She's more than meets the eye, gentlemen," Isabella said, pushing passed Ragetti, who gave her a weak smile. "Be more perceptive. You perceive an object of no worth, but really your minds are taking on or actually becoming like the form of the object you are perceiving, which would in fact, make you worthless as well. Don't want to do that, do you?"

Isabella smiled at their confusion, deciding that it would be best to enjoy her last moments in their presence.

Barbossa and Jack found their way behind her, pushing the crew back as they drew near. "Miss Isabella, if ye care to open up the vista o' our limitless eternity, I would be most obliged," said Barbossa as he swept a graceful arm toward the Fountain.

"The Fountain can only be opened by the gods, and I am no god," she said evenly as she moved toward it.

A strange eeriness came over her as her ears picked up the slow unsheathing sound of a sword from behind her.

Isabella turned her head to look over her shoulder. "Your honor can be regained with time, Captain Barbossa, but there is not enough time remaining in my existence for you to regain my trust."

"He who does not trust, cannot be trusted," Barbossa said, confident in his stance.

"Then, I trust that you have made your final decision, Barbossa?" Isabella asked, watching as a smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

Realizing the path Barbossa was willing to take, she called for the only action she could think of against her newfound enemy.

"Sword!" she yelled to Moore, who unsheathed one his own and tossed it to her.

There was no reply from Barbossa, so Isabella advanced on the Pirate Lord with her sword and her words. "You know, you're absolutely right, Captain. How admirable of you to teach me such an important lesson in life. Tell me, why should I grant you what you desire when you've breached my trust?"

"Humor me with an answer, Missy, for I see no advantage in answerin' it meself," he said, parrying her advancement.

From the corner of her eye, she could see her men preparing for battle, though it was not their battle to fight.

"Stay back!" she yelled, dodging Barbossa's blade.

Moore's sword proved to be too heavy of a weapon for her compared to her gladius, and as she swung forward, it required her to use the strength of her whole body to lift the blade through the air.

The pair was greatly matched in skill, dodging each others attacks as if their battle were practiced and prescripted.

Barbossa's hand was exercised in the rules of truly artful sword fighting as if he were a perfectionist of sorts. Without taking notice, he never failed to make the exact motions he needed in order to counter Isabella's quick attacks.

She was still young in form, and her movements carried on with force imparted to them by an immeasurable anger. Barbossa noted that very few of her actions were made in vain, and that each one of her blows was significant enough to strike a man down from exhaustion.

However, she still continued to struggle from exhaustion herself due to the weight of Moore's sword. Barbossa, finding her sword's weight as an advantage, released a forceful kick to Isabella's stomach, which caused her to fall backward upon the rocks.

As she drew herself up to her feet, Isabella discovered that she greatly underestimated Barbossa's previous experience. He had successfully demonstrated that, with his age, he brought with him much of his own knowledge, power, cunning and strength to arms of battle.

He continued to swing with clear blows upon her upper body, but Isabella's quick thinking and impulse prompted her to block the move with the flat of her sword, pushing his blade away forcefully, but so that it did him no harm. It was a push that served to warn him of the danger he was in, if he chose to continue. The torment that brewed within her from _his _rage could explode at any moment, and if Barbossa continued on with such determination, he would be caught within a force that he would not be able to handle.

Isabella did not wish death upon Hector Barbossa; instead she wanted to push him away as an act of clemency, for he was consumed by the greed that most men possessed, and even betrayers betray themselves.

She lunged forward, attempting to hit the sword from his hand. "I am here to fulfill my duty to my men, so you can take your honor and traitorous ways to the gates of Hades for all I care."

Barbossa smiled, catching her blade with his. "Look at yerself, child. Yer nothing but a vulnerable giant, and as you stand, I can see in yer eyes that me betrayal isn't what truly ails you – it's something bigger."

She drew back her sword, feeling uneasy from his statement. Perhaps, she had grown vulnerable and placed valuable trust in those who were not deserving of it. And for what purpose, exactly? To risk her pride in order to find her own glory? Surely, she wouldn't shred herself to the core over the men that would knowingly betray her.

After a moment, Barbossa leaped forward, finding himself within another tug of war of mind over matter.

"You falsely called yourself my friend and took advantage of my kindness. I could kill you for such a thing," she whispered through her teeth, while Barbossa still made an effort to move forward.

"Try to kill me while ye can, lass," he said, knowing that she did not possess the gall to slay him. "Seems like ye think you'll be doin' the world a favor," he continued, stepping back as he heard another sword unsheathed from behind her.

The sound caused her to turn, cocking her head to the side. She blinked multiple times, as if she secretly hoped that her eyes were deceiving her.

"Don't move," Jack said, holding his cutlass to her chest.

She could hear her heart pounding. "So, this was a plot of your own design, was it?" she said, taking note that his arm was shaking, and that his demeanor was clearly being reflected by his stance. She took another step closer to him, but stopped when she felt Barbossa's blade on her back.

"M'lady, a step too close would be most ill advised," said Barbossa.

She stopped, nodding her head. She finally understood.

"Drop your sword," Jack said, catching her attention again.

She averted her eyes over to her men for a moment, silently signaling to Moore to calm the others with her eyes. With Jack's sword pointed at her scar, and Barbossa's on her back, she felt the handle her own sword fall from her fingers as if it were too cumbersome for her grasp.

Jack adjusted his posture, swallowing hard as he attempted to straighten his arm. '_Stop bloody shaking!' _he thought, looking down at his wrist.

"Now, Missy, this here situation can be effortlessly avoided, if you'll just be tellin' us what it is that we'll be needin' to know," said Barbossa with confidence.

Placing her arms down at her sides, she looked Jack square in the eye. His shaky stance along with the sadness he possessed in his eyes caused her to question whether he truly wanted that fate for her, or for them.

Ignoring Barbossa's demand, she decided to address Jack with a tone of harshness in her voice. "Tell me, Jack. What is it that you're planning on doing to me?"

He faltered, looking down for a brief moment as if he was looking for an answer, but found nothing, which caused him to fall silent. Whatever he might have said at that point was unforgivable.

At one point in her early life, her dear mother advised her that peace and patience would be the virtues she must carry on throughout her life, if she were to become a proper leader. Isabella had never anticipated that love was long suffering, patient, and kind, but not manipulative. Her response to the feeling of betrayal was not revenge, sadness or anger. Though, she would have liked to believe that those feelings didn't heal or help, she couldn't help but find herself slipping down the hills of vengeance, letting her anger rise from within.

She finally surrendered, slowly lifting her arms in the air in defeat as she spoke the only word that she knew Jack would not favor on her lips.

"Coward," she hissed.

His nose twitched as he narrowed his brow in anger. "Hold your tongue!" he said, straightening his stance, while holding his cutlass with far more conviction than he had anticipated.

"What is it that you want? I'd fancy the truth this time, if you will," she said after a moment.

"Love, I never lied to you," he said quietly.

She cocked her head defiantly, licking her lips. "Yet here you stand with a sword pointed at my heart. Do not try to fool me again, Jack. You _did_ lie to me…" she said, feeling her voice trail. "Is this what you want? To live forever without any regard for those around you?" she said suddenly.

It was at that moment that she felt the pain of Barbossa's words. She _was_ a vulnerable giant who willfully opened herself, mind, body and soul to a man after building up all her defenses like an inner suit of armor in the hopes no one would harm her. Within their time together, she gave him a piece of herself, even if he didn't ask for it. All he had done was charm her, kiss her and win her over with his illustrious smile, and then her life wasn't her own anymore.

"Bella-" he began softly.

"No! Do not call me that name, for it amounts to naught but ash upon your lips and I will not accept such deceit from you," she cried, feeling a familiar rage begin to rise within the pit of her stomach. "Is this what you want?" she asked once more, noting a small nod on Jack's behalf.

"Then, I shall give it to you. It's the least I can do," she said, sighing as she leaned forward onto the tip of Jack's blade. "You know, I believed that you would take care of my heart and that's why I left it with you. Happiness in small ways, Jack … Remember? Happiness can be taken away so very quickly…"

She took a long breath, feeling her arms shake.

It was time to release _him_, just like she promised. Betrayal and duty were to become one in the same.

Suddenly, she felt her arms reach forward without her consent, grabbing a hold of Jack's hand. In an instant, she pulled him to her until she felt the handle of his cutlass touching her chest, feeling her lungs heave and longing for air.

The pain from his blade was momentary, fading into a lapse of numbness which made her body quiver. It had sliced clean through her scar, causing her to feel the slightest trickle of blood oozing from her back and chest.

His heart stopped, but his first instinct was to pull away from her, sliding his blade out from deep within her chest.

There was no sadder feeling than that of disbelief – wishing to suspend moments of tragedy in time to take back that which was wrongfully done. As his lips twitched, he felt the passionate grip he once had on his cutlass lessen until he felt the weapon slip from his fingers, and he watched her stand for a moment, amazed that she continued to possess the same conviction in her bearings, until she lost the fire from her eyes.

As her legs gave way, she fell to her knees and he fell with her, catching her body before she fell to the ground, but he could offer her no words as he felt his breath escape from his lungs, unwilling to return.

There was no deceit in death, no whispers of trickery or lies from strange tongues or snakes. Death delivered precisely what it promised without slaughtering all of her expectations. And with death, she would save mankind from a fate unbeknownst to them.

Then she saw him opening his mouth as his grip tightened upon her shoulders, attempting to find his voice, an apology, or a gasp of air – whatever it may have been, it was too late for her and time turned into a precious commodity.

Before he could utter a word, she found the strength to place a finger on his lips.

"Shush, Jack," she said, resting her head on his, feeling her sentience dying within her. Her insides started to burn, beginning to feel an almost heartbreaking sense of the fragility and preciousness for each successive moment. From that, she grew a deep, clear, limitless compassion for all those around her, even her betrayer.

"I know that you're sorry," she said softly, swallowing hard as she shifted her gaze to Moore.

Her eyes were beginning to blur, but she was able to recognize a scuffle amongst her soldiers. She observed as Moore began to restrain Jordan from moving forward – his arms fastened tightly around Jordan's waist, and she could not even begin to explain the expression she saw on her young lieutenant's face.

She had not told Jordan of her purpose, or why she had to die in order to save them all. Not a bone in her body wanted to crush his youthful innocence, his happiness, or his optimism. He was just so brilliantly devoted and free from care, but there he was - reaching out to her from behind a group of her men, looking as if he were screaming, though it was too faint for her to hear or see any longer.

A small moment of regret came when she saw him cry, and in her final effort to comfort him, she reached out to him with her heart and her smile; for he was the only soldier she would have been willing to take in as one of her own, and with such great pride she would have called him her son for the rest of her days.

She felt Jack's hands shake her out of her bout with delirium, and she could sense the faintest of whispers from his hot breath on her cheek.

She turned to him, calmly licking blood from her lips. "They belong to him now. Run from this place, save yourself. Save your crew…" she said, feeling the blood form clots in her throat.

She began to experience a highly charged feeling, headachy strong, and almost like an overhead energy had descended upon her being. It was as if her soul and her body were beginning to separate, leaving her to become part of eternity without physical consciousness. In terms of perception or objective reality, she was no longer a physical being or and entity that existed. Death was not an entity and so she would mirror it, succumbing to Death's exact likeness.

"Take care of yourself inside, Jack…" she whispered, placing her hand on his chest.

He could see that she was bleeding heavily against his shirt and he finally came to a haunting realization.

She was dying … his Isabella was dying, and he could not stop it.

"In small ways," he replied weakly, feeling a moment of ease when he saw her smile.

As she took in her final breath, she fell forward into his arms, waiting to exhale, knowing that what she wanted was a perfect ending. In the end, she learned the hard way that some poems didn't rhyme, but her story was fortunate to have a clear beginning and middle, but not a clear ending. The beauty in life was about not knowing, and she would close her eyes knowing that she had the capacity to love again, even after all her hardships.

Jack wished he could have done something - anything - that could stop the events that were about to take place. Even his breaths were hurting him deeply, cursing his body with every inhalation, and the pain caused his eyes to tear.

He wished he could paint his face, so that he could look like a warrior, and easily mask his agony behind the pigment.

There were snakes crawling beneath his skin, hissing at him from all the sorrow he brought upon her. He grew sick to the point where he felt like vomiting from the sight of her blood, because it was too disgusting to be filled with snakes, but he held it inside.

For a brief moment, he could not recognize her. She was so fragile and delusional, and it caused him to grow angry with himself. They had come such a long way together.

Hooking a finger beneath her chin, he pressed his lips on hers in a final effort to stop the blood with his mouth, but it hated him, and the blood continued to pour without remorse.

His Isabella was dying, and he would be with her as her end drew near.

He kneeled with her, wishing to find the proper words to speak to her, but as he held her during her final moments, he found his father's words at the very front of his mind.

"_It's not just about livin' forever, Jackie. It's about livin' with yourself forever."_

It was the moments before death when most people realized what life was all about. He saw that the life withering within his arms was almost nothing but the sum of every choice she had made during her existence.

Her thoughts were just as real as her deeds, and he wondered if she as well, had begun to realize that her every word and every deed affected not only her life, but had also affected thousands of lives in the process.

He couldn't help but close his eyes as the great general fell limp in his arms, and a world of screams felt silent around him. All he could hear was the hissing of snakes, plunging down inside his innards once more, and cursing him with an undeniable nausea deep within the pit of his stomach.

---

As Isabella's life drew to an end, Moore found himself dealing with the responsibility of carrying an irate Jordan down to the end of the dirt passageway, so his kicking and screaming could no longer be heard from the Fountain's chamber.

Moore tossed Jordan to the ground before him, and placed his hands on his hips.

"Jordan, what are you doing?"

"No, that is not the question at hand here. What exactly are _you_ doing?" he retorted, pouncing back onto his feet.

"Jordan-" Moore said, pushing Jordan back as he began to advance on him. Moore realized that Jordan actions were turning to rash and aggressive spurts of rage, so he decided to put himself on the defense.

"No! What are you doing?" Jordan yelled, beginning to pace around the dark passageway. "You stood by and watched her die! What kind of man are you?"

Jordan's pain was eating him from the inside, and left him crying in the darkness. Watching Isabella's life slip away before him hurt, and not just in his imagination or in his mind. The pain it caused hurt his soul, for it was a real pain that ripped even the most resilient souls apart, and he could not control his rage.

"We claim to be in an army," he said, tossing his arms in the air. "There are people in this world who have given their lives to forward the acts of the gods and in the process, damning millions of innocent souls to Hell. I have no compassion for it any longer, even if it means one less soldier in a godless army!" Jordan exclaimed.

"This is exactly why she didn't see fit to tell you!"

"Why because I'm too fucking young, right?" he asked, pushing Moore against the wall. "I'm too fucking young to handle letting someone die? I hold the same title as you and equal knowledge!"

"You have no idea of the position she held, and these fraudulent, over zealous, intimidating gods of misguided compassion have caused you to turn on your own comrades instead of fighting alongside us!" Moore yelled, pushing Jordan down to the ground.

"They have you crying over the death of someone who raised you to stop such deceit!" Moore continued, taking a deep breath to calm himself, while holding his hand out to the young man.

Jordan scrambled up to his feet, even more enraged than he was before. "I don't mind being told to stand on my own feet, not to cling, and do all that I am capable of doing, but if I am going to be pursued, fucked, and possessed by the will of a god to do their bidding, I would appreciate an explanation as to why!"

"Jordan, you don't understand …"

"What do I need to understand?" Jordan asked, so engulfed in anger that he raised his fists to Moore with all intention of hitting him. At the very last second, Jordan diverted his strike to the dirt wall beside him, letting his frustration out the only way he knew he could.

Jordan pounded at the wall with all of the strength he possessed. The rage and hate within him needed to be relinquished, yet he found it harder to dispel his pain with each strike.

Moore stood back, letting the young man expel his grief, wishing he could do the same, but time was of the essence for him, and he would honor Isabella's memory by fulfilling her final wishes.

Jordan's spirit would not grow if he sat within the confines of a beautiful flower garden for the rest of his days. Instead, he would grow if he was sick with pain, experienced losses, and by not putting his head beneath the sand in fear. Therefore, if Jordan took the pain of loss as a gift, he would see that it possessed a very specific purpose.

As Jordan's arms began to falter from exhaustion, he felt his knees finally give way, causing him to fall to the dirt with tears in his eyes. Jordan's pain could not be properly vented, and it hurt his organs, and caused him to weep uncontrollably.

Moore caught him and placed his hands on Jordan's shoulders. "There are things that we don't want to happen, but we have to accept. There are so many things we don't want to know, but we still have to learn, then there are people we can't live without, but we have to let go," Moore said quietly.

Jordan clutched his chest as it began to heave, while choking back words that he did not have the ability to speak.

"She said how she would take death as it came to her and not try to fight it or run away from it, but then there are also those who are scared of dying and cannot accept the fact that sooner or later, the time will come for them to pass on as well. She was scared to tell you, Jordan, because she was afraid of what you would do when the time came."

Moore felt Jordan's body twitch each time he spoke the word 'she' as if the name caused him too great of a pain to describe.

No words or actions could have spoken louder than his tears. "Please, forgive me, Isabella. I will not fight," he said, pushing away from Moore. "You are not my general."

Moore hung his head low at the statement, and in an instant the mystery of the underground chamber was enhanced by the rumbling of the earth beneath them.

"Jordan! Throw yourself to the ground!" he exclaimed, grabbing the man by his arm as they both stumbled to the side of the passageway, kneeling to taking cover beside the dirt walls, while covering their heads with their arms for protection from falling debris.

After a few moments, the rumbling ceased and they heard a flutter of movement from beyond the entrance to the Fountain's chamber. They watched as the pirates that led them on their journey ran out from the small sliver of an entrance, yelling and screaming something about the devil himself being upon them.

Jordan held his arm out, stopping the first pirate he could get his hands on, which was Joshamee Gibbs.

"Gibbs, what the hell was that?" Jordan said breathlessly, scrambling to his feet.

Gibbs was panting and hunched over to catch his breath. "A man … he just sprouted up from … from …"

"Calm yourself, Gibbs. What's happening?" Jordan said, grabbing a fist full of the First Mate's shirt.

"Jack's madder than the devil hisself – he won't budge from where he kneels. Barbossa's by 'is side, 'pears he's not keepin' to the Code," he said.

Moore nodded, harkening to the call of his duty. "Stay here. When you've got your head together come find me," he said, leaving the passageway to aid his men, who were still within the chamber.

"I will not fight by your side, do you hear me? I've had enough!" Jordan yelled after him, realizing that his words would not be heeded or considered. He grabbed Gibbs by the shoulder and helped him escape from the passageway.

Moore left without another word, stumbling into panicking Colin Andrews within the Fountain's chamber.

"Moore! It's … It's-"

"I know, Colin. See to Jordan in the passageway. Now," Moore said, sliding through the crowd of soldiers to the Fountain to find Ares, God of War, standing before Jack Sparrow with his arms held out to him.

---

He stood before them; a man once thought as a sketched and bloodthirsty and cast off as a raging demon whose desire for victory was nothing more than a braggadocio compared to those with rational power. He was deemed 'mad' and 'insane' by the gods, and was said to have lived with no character or knowledge of right and wrong.

There was no god more hated than the true son of Hera, born from her rage and hatred for Zeus.

Moore and his men saw no demon, but instead they saw a man scorned and banished from his proper place among the Titans. His passion was frightening to those who considered themselves civilized, so he was repressed, and forced to take cover within the body of another until it was his time to emerge once more.

He was not seven hundred feet tall, or utterly treacherous. He was a simple man, poised and stoic, whose name and reputation were dragged through the dirt of countless battlefields and pools of blood until he was considered naught but a nuisance.

Once shamed into hiding, Ares returned to the world of the living with a vengeance to regain the position that was rightfully his.

Moore and his men fell to their knees as their new leader fell to his.

"Do not mourn that which cannot be changed," Ares said as his eyes met Jack's.

Ares felt the pain of sorrow within his being, it was the same pain he felt when he lost a soldier to war, and he often wondered what kind of life or dreams that lost soul might have had. Ares hoped to alleviate, at the very least, a fraction of the pain by taking the body away from him.

At first, Jack was reluctant to give her away, instinctively holding her closer to his chest when Ares held out his arms to him. Though, after a moment, Jack felt an element of sincerity toward the god. He possessed an openness of heart that Jack found in Isabella, so he decided that perhaps, it would be best to put her in the capable hands of a god, while continuing to hold the slightest bit of hope that he could restore her to her former glory. An optimistic thought, it was, but he could not help but wish for the best, for it could not be any worse.

Once her body was safely nestled within his arms, Ares lifted himself to his feet, holding her close to his chest.

Ares licked his lips. "Take a knee, men," he said, walking toward the group of soldiers.

"I propose to you, soldiers of righteousness, an opportunity to wage such a war that it will carry the reward of glorious martyrdom - a war that will assure the title eternal glory," he said, scanning the faces of the men that stood before him.

"In your lives, no success has come without a battle, and this day isn't any different. Consider it a tribute to your general, who opposed me at first, but then came to be one of my supporters. She was a supporter that carried my spirit within her until she could find a proper group of men to fulfill the great duty of restoring peace to the heavens. She was a leader of great ability, who loved you all and wished to lead you into better days. Her support is an honor, and her great deeds will not be forgotten."

A single evenly spaced applause came from deep within the shadows beside the Fountain, calling to attention to the clapper's presence as if it were made as a genuine accolade. Then he emerged from the darkness as a smile tugged the corners of his lips. Hermes was a snake, an 'adder' named after his habit of adding funeral outlays at the expense of others. He hissed like one, and walked as if he held the upper hand at all times. Though he was not venomous, he surely acted like poison surged through his veins.

"Well done, brother. An impressive display of prowess and, might I add, an excellent entrance into the realm of the living, and I must certainly commend you on your clever hiding place," Hermes said, crinkling his face in disgust as he stepped over a pool of blood left by Isabella's fatal wound.

"Hermes, you manipulative bastard," Ares growled.

"Oh, come now, Ares, let us not be so wicked toward one another. Mother would be so ashamed to see her two sons turning against each other. You're back and it is a new beginning for us, is it not?" he asked, but received no reply.

"What is it that you want?" Ares asked, narrowing his brow.

"All I want is the right to fulfill my duty. I am here to inform you that Mother wants the body," Hermes continued, "and I will deliver it to her, just as I deliver all bodies to Charon. Now, be cooperative, brother. You wouldn't want to wear out your welcome, would you?"

"This body will not deviate from its course. It will be sent to Charon and to no one else. Hera does not hold power or jurisdiction over the dead, nor does she hold judgment over the living," Ares said sternly.

"Life and death," Hermes said, cupping his hands behind his back. "You pose a convincing argument, my dear brother. Though, a man of your position would know that most of humanity, with very few exceptions, is largely clueless about the true nature of violence, and fail to realize that life itself is very much about bloodshed and war, isn't it?"

Ares shifted his stance as Hermes drew near, planting his feet firmly to ground. "Determination will prevail over violence and the men who submit themselves to the sins of your nature will not be able to differentiate an ally from an enemy, but rather reduce them both to the same state."

"You see, my dear brother, that is where you are sadly mistaken," Hermes hissed, cracking his neck.

"Am I?"

"Oh yes, I'm afraid so. Life, as we know it, is about men struggling against adversaries bent on their destruction; about trying to avenge and protect their comrades or loved ones by taking life and doing harm. Fools folly, if you ask me," Hermes said, humored at the thought of his statement.

"So, considering all this, why is it that I find you standing between me and everything you stand against? You are a god of war, not a god of rebellion or anarchy," Hermes said, placing a hand on his chin as he studied his long lost brother.

"I stand between you and corruption. You've lost your way and have become one of the many men who have run to Hera not only for power, but also because you think that no one will stand against you. You think that you'll never be contradicted."

A manic laugh escaped Hermes' lips, and he clapped his hands together as if he was all too amused. "Is that what you think? You're wonderfully clever and just spectacular with your words of valor and decency, aren't you?" he said, leaning forward into his laughter. "It seems that you and I are more similar than I originally thought – concerning cleverness, of course. However, I believe that the sole purpose of power is its intention to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Great men are always bad men and great gods are always corrupt gods."

"Power takes pride in withering its victims," Ares said, looking down at Isabella's body, while shifting it to hang over his left shoulder before turning to continue on to the Fountain. "Though their work will not go unnoticed … I will restore the justice she deserved."

"Justice? How quaint," he said, noticing that Ares had not stopped to give him the snappy retort he was expecting.

Hermes' expression grew wild. "I can't let you do that-" he began to say, reaching out to grab the body.

Sometimes, last words did not hold any form of wisdom or moral lessons.

It was within a small fraction of time, Ares would demonstrate that neither evil tongues, rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, would prevail against good men. With his sword, he intended to teach mankind that the less they used their power, the greater they will be.

As he felt Hermes' icy hands upon the body, he firmly grasped the leather handle of his sword and swung with utmost precision, slicing through godly muscle and bone as it made contact with Hermes' neck. With one movement, he solidified the fact that quickness of hand and knowledge could acquire a sufficient enough power from within to alter the course of nature.

The snake was forever silenced and no word would be going out to Hera to tell her otherwise.

Ares sheathed his sword, picking up the body of his half-brother, and rested the corpse over his shoulder. He looked down at the remaining men before him.

The two in the front were still in despair, one more than the other, and he could sense it. The others behind them stood with resolve, fists clenched and hearts ridden with anger. They were the type of men that could be cultivated and used for the greater good, and she had molded them to his exact specifications, just as she had promised she would long ago in exchange for her life.

Ares could not help but return his gaze to the man on his knees. He was the catalyst that prompted his release and Ares could not deny his gratitude for such an act. The woman he held in his arms spent her last days loving and she died a martyr. She should be a saint, yet he felt that it would do her no justice, and the man on his knees would most certainly agree. It was a sad truth, for what is in store for those who possess unselfish hearts is nothing but absolute death.

"Your name, son?" Ares asked, looking at him sternly.

"Jack Sparrow," he said quickly.

Ares shook his head, running his fingers through his dark curly locks. "I believe we have a misunderstanding. I asked you for _your_ name."

He looked down for a moment, finding a name that he had not uttered in nearly twenty years. "Jonathan. Jonathan Edward Teague," he finally said.

Ares nodded with a smile, turning to the Fountain, holding a hand up to its rocky form, granting it a moment's release from dormancy.

They all looked up as a clear liquid began to flow from deep within the rocks, trickling down the hard surface so that wonders of nature and human life could convene for a few slow moments.

"Jonathan Edward Teague, choose the path you're willing to take," Ares said, stepping aside to let Jack make his decision before the remaining soldiers would step forward.

Jack finally rose to his feet, squaring away his shoulders as he pursed his lips. He took a quick glance at Barbossa and decided to take his place beside him.

"You know, sometimes things come back, mate. We're living proof, you and me," Jack said softly.

"A gamble of long odds, Jack. Remember?" Barbossa said, realizing that their conversation had become strikingly familiar.

At one point, Jack would have laughed at the thought of going back to the land of the dead, let alone bringing someone back with him. He could already imagine lying down beside her in Hades, wrapping his arms around her even if she refused to return the sentiment. He would rest his head on hers until she granted him forgiveness.

He closed his eyes. It _might_ hurt. No, it _will_ hurt, and he could take the easier way out, and cry for her, but it wouldn't help.

Improbable though it may have seemed at that instance, he chose his path despite his own self-preservation, deciding that he would make that journey and travel down the pathways of Hades for her, and for no one else.

"No, not long enough. The manner in which you speak betrays your limits because you refuse to consider the answers outside of your own restrictions."

Barbossa smiled in silent agreement. He had to admit, Jack was unique in that he had his own plans in mind already. One could only hope that Jack's plan would be of ethical value, and at that moment of great regret, Barbossa would most certainly fancy any plan that could bring Isabella back, just has he was brought back from the dead.

Their future was to be determined by the choice they would make at that very moment.

Jack nodded, turning away from Barbossa, and the Fountain of Youth along with the god who held the deceased body of a woman that he had come to adore, finding that his feet could not travel fast enough to get away.

---


	27. Pathway to Hades

**A/N**: Sorry for the long wait for this chapter, gents! I needed a bit more time with it, and I hope you enjoy the direction I'm taking this in. :)

**Shameless plug**: Conquests of a Well Bred Prostitute is nearing it's third chapter! It's a totally new writing style for me. So, if you're interested in _The Libertine_ fandom, please take a look!

As always, a wonderful thank you goes out to Nytd for her beta magic.

* * *

_**Chapter 27 – Pathway to Hades**_

---

Later on that night within the great dark cabin of the _Black Pearl_, Jack dreamt of Isabella closing her eyes and felt a flow a great sadness into his heart that passing quickly into tears. His mind wandered as he lifted his head from the chart table, wishing that he could suck the Fountain dry from his woe and his struggle.

In like manner, his own feelings of mourning were bursting through the youthful voice of his heart, and quickly found its escape in tears, yet he restrained them in silence, for he did not consider it fitting to cry for her at that moment, especially not in front of Barbossa.

Isabella was dead, and she wouldn't be mourned, because she neither died unhappy nor did she die altogether. Instead, he felt reassured that her memory would live on by her good nature and unfeigned faith in her men. Perhaps, a part of her would still exist in his heart as well, even if she grew fearful of the snakes that continued to crawl beneath his skin, hissing at him with thousands of wrathful tongues.

Her darling eyes were closed in a peaceful sleep and each time he thought of her, his limbs were racked with pain, even in his own rest. With his slender hands crossed upon one another, he felt the pulse of his heart quicken through the senses of his fingers and palms. It was quiet then in the cabin, and perhaps he would be hushed to rest at last, but all he could recall was her dark hair parted – smoothed upon her brow, just moments before she took her final breath.

From what he could recall, her face possessed no lines of suffering at all. Aye, she was at peace, for he marked the smile on her face, and he marked it again at that moment, restraining his sobs and tears. She possessed no fear of death, but instead she possessed a perfect joy, and angels could wear no brighter mien than hers.

What was it that caused Jack to experience such grievous pain within, but the newly made wound from having that most sweet and dear habit of living together with her suddenly broken off? He was full of joy in her presence, and in her final breaths she forgave him kindly and recalled with great affection of love that she had never heard any harsh or reproachful sound come out of his mouth against her.

With the map to Worlds End rolled out before him, he hoped to find an answer within the multiple spinning dials, but he did not. His Isabella would be going to a different place of rest – a place the likes of him knew nothing about.

Barbossa sighed, leaning back into his chair, ridden with guilt along with the wish to undo his actions. Grief along with guilt was at the core of his sorrows. It was, therefore, not surprising that his guilt led a striking motivation to walk away from the Fountain and toward restitution, confession, and apology.

"We talk a lot about apologies, Jack, but only as a means of deescalatin' conflict for the purpose of engagin' in successful negotiations alike. Seems that we ne'er meant apologies jus' fer apologies sake," Barbossa said, handing Jack a measure of rum, though he'd imagine Jack would need the whole tankard for such an occasion.

"Successful negotiations? Fair enough. However, I will not unconditionally accept the terms that have been offered to me this time. No, I'm afraid not. Negotiating requires compromise, and I'm not willing to compromise when it comes to her," Jack said, knowing that the most difficult aspect of any negotiation was making sure that one stripped it of the emotion and dealt with the facts, but that was not the case.

Never in his life did he think he'd let some_thing_ or some_one_ get in the way of what he truly desired, and now he had to face the fact that he would probably never get the chance at immortality again, but that notion caused a great weight to lift from his shoulders. However, to his great regret, another one quickly took its place.

Barbossa nodded. "There is a considerable challenge to that here and understandably so," he said, knowing that if anyone could get the best of his opponent, it would be the likes of him and Jack Sparrow. To them, negotiating and piracy went hand in hand, twas a valuable ability to acquire and a true art form of diplomacy, for in the business of piracy, pirates don't get what they deserve, they get what they negotiate.

Without warning, the doors of the great cabin flew open and the shadows of two men appeared within the frame, startling Jack and Barbossa from their seats.

With their weapons cocked, Jack and Barbossa were in no mood for anymore surprises, yet they faltered when they finally heard the shadows speak.

"They left with the evening tide," said one of the shadows as it stepped into the candlelight, revealing its true identity.

To General Moore's dismay, Jordan and Colin had decided to not leave along with the others, opting to stay behind in their refusal to fight alongside the beast that Isabella harbored within her spirit. They blamed Ares for her turmoil and loathed him for taking their brilliant general away.

Barbossa and Jack sighed breathes of relief, sitting down as the pair entered the cabin.

"They are heading west to rendezvous with the rest of the army," Jordan continued, motioning for Colin to join him by his side as he vividly recalled the armada of glowing red ships they saw in the distance just before sundown.

"They're going to face Hera now," Colin added, taking a seat beside Barbossa.

With Isabella's men on the front lines, Ares decided that it would be best to raise his previous army of soldiers to aid in combat. The undead would serve as security, and it was crucial because Hera was cunning, and with the death of her bastard son, she had no one to infiltrate the minds of her enemies. She would most likely wage war in all directions in her rage, and make mistakes along the way, which was where Moore and the men would take advantage.

Jordan also recalled the small glimpse he took at the hundreds of bodies swarming upon the decks of Ares' vessel, _The War Chariot_, with weapons drawn, awaiting their own personal revenge on the heathen goddess. Their battlefield would be the sea; there they will finally finish what Ares had started thousands of years ago, but he would not be there to join them.

Jack cocked his head to the side. "So, why did you not see fit to join them on their journey? Highly uncharacteristic of you lot to not stick together," Jack said with a flick of his wrist.

"I will not see more of my comrades die. Now, I must take many a dying message from them to those who cared for them back at the colony. I can't bear to tell another hearty and intelligent testimony to their bravery, their unselfishness, and their worth," Jordan said, averting his eyes as he addressed Jack.

"Even my best words of praise would be feeble and insufficient, but it allows me to not fall into sorrow over her grave. According to Moore, she was willing to die, but we must remember her mission and be mindful of her dying desires," Jordan continued.

"And how do intend on being mindful of her dying desires when you find yourself here and not out there where you're intended to be?" Jack asked, feeling angry and uneasy about discussing the subject so soon after seeing her fall.

Jordan lowered his head, knowing that he wasn't truly following her final orders, but he had other things in mind, and was sure that she'd be proud of him either way.

"Tell me, Lieutenant, why can I not neglect or ignore her dying desires just as you are at this very moment?" Jack said, leaning back on his chair.

"You must refuse to ignore it! Do you not feel guilt because you believe yourself to be above the notions of right and wrong?"

Jack felt anger rise within him, causing him to slam his hand atop the chart table, seething in pain from his heart. "I feel guilt! And you are in no position to tell me otherwise. Mark it well, lad," he said harshly.

"Then why do you sit here, cowering in your cabin, with your maps and treasures?" Jordan said, sweeping the charts off the table in one solid wave of his arm. "You deceived her, yet you do nothing to redeem yourself!"

Jordan had crossed the line. Jack would have dealt with the guilt, just not at that moment. There should have been no question of his feelings, but that didn't change the fact that he felt like he'd sullied himself, and violated the principles he lived by.

Before Jack could retaliate, Barbossa found himself standing between both men. "Then what do you suggest that we should be doin' to redeem our wicked souls, Master Jordan?" Barbossa said, looking as if he already knew the answer to his own inquiry.

"We followed him," Jordan said abruptly.

"Followed who, exactly?" Barbossa asked, eagerly leaning against the chart table.

"Ares," Colin answered quickly, recalling the massive god exiting the Fountain's chamber. "We were still lingering around the opening of the passageway well after Moore and the men left to prepare the _Hellride_. We saw Ares appear with two bodies on his shoulder within the shadows of the grotto, and we recognized one …"

"It was Isabella's," Jordan said, biting his lip.

"We yelled at him to stop, but then he just vanished into thin air," Colin continued.

Jordan licked his lips and took a small breath. "We ran to the spot in the grotto where we had spotted him to see where he had gone, but there was no trace of him."

"We weren't sure what to do after that," Colin said.

"So, you've here for our help, have you?" Jack deduced, watching both Jordan and Colin nod in agreement. "I assure you, gentlemen that our solutions to this problem are no more superior or no less wistful than yours, and at the moment we are still amidst our battle with grief. Wishful thinking so happens to be a similar weapon of choice."

"Horseshit! This isn't wishful thinking! You're Captain Jack Sparrow and Captain Hector Barbossa. If the stories about you two have any sort of truth to them, then you should be able to help us. Are the stories true? Prove us right. You're our only hope," Colin said, spilling out his admiration for the two men.

"She was not buried properly," Jordan interrupted softly, resting his knuckles on the chart table. "She will not rest. You must help us."

Jack's eyes darted up at Jordan, and his hand quickly began silently rummaging through the array of pouches attached to his belts.

"The ancient cultures stressed proper burial as a requirement for the soul's peaceful rest. Our first run in with Hermes proved this to be true," Jordan went on, retrieving an obulos coin from his pocket. "Isabella gave this to me for safekeeping, and from what I heard that day, this coin should have be placed beneath her tongue in order for her to pay for her rightful passage into the land of the dead; otherwise she will be cursed and tortured upon the shores of the Acheron."

"What about Turner? I'm sure we come to some sort of understanding with him?" Jack asked suddenly, turning to Barbossa for reassurance.

"Turner?" asked Colin, narrowing his brow with sparks of hope and intrigue.

"Young Master Turner is ferryman of those lost at sea," Barbossa said knowingly, folding his arms across his chest.

Jordan shook his head, beginning to pace. "No, he cannot help us. Isabella did not die at sea," he said, hesitating for a moment as he found himself at the command of the three men before him. "We must find Charon; he is the ferryman of those who die on land. We must do this before she is doomed to walk the banks of the river Acheron for one hundred years in penance."

"And where do you propose we start lookin'?" Barbossa asked skeptically, placing a hand on his chin.

"I say, we go back to the tree and look for clues there. If anything, Ares must have disappeared to send the bodies to Charon. There must be a way to find him from there!" Jordan said excitedly.

Jack cleared his throat, finding that the bold determination in Jordan's voice seemed to mimic that of the young Mister Turner, and they both seemed to lack the same qualities. "Then what are your plans, Jordan? What will happen once we reach this _ferryman_, aye? Doesn't seem like you've thought through this at all, now have you?"

"And you have?" Jordan spat defensively.

"Not entirely." Jack smiled, finding the object he was seeking on his waist, while also finding that he was the one who possessed the upper hand at that moment. "However, answer me this, my dear friend. Even if we do find Charon, how do you expect him to just hand over a soul that was delivered to him by a god, and is most rightfully under his jurisdiction?"

Barbossa tilted his head, studying the look on Jack's face, and realized that it was the same look that he had naught but a few months ago, just seconds before the _Flying Dutchmen_ emerged from the depths of the Caribbean Sea with William Turner as its captain.

'_He's onto something_,' Barbossa thought, finding a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he licked them.

"Gentlemen, the answer is simple," Jack said with a large devilish smile as he tossed a familiar pouch of coins upon the black chart table, and watched as stray obulos coins rolled out of it for all to see.

"We negotiate."

---

Many knew of the Acheron as the "river of woe," and it was one of the five rivers of Hades that girdled the earth. Hades' kingdom, dark Tartarus, was presumed to be on the farther shore of the river Styx, over the edge of the visible world, but no one could be certain, for those who went there did not return.

Perhaps they would not return as well, but as Jack realized just moments after her death, it _will_ hurt, and there was no escape from that.

There was always a journey to bring someone back from the dead and it was often long. They would have to take a path of pins and a path of needles, and they would walk upon the pins until their feet bled. Then they would walk upon the needles until their feet bled, red like roses, but with blood that was as cold as ice.

They would feel their bodies mourning, because it hurts to bring someone back from the dead.

The utterly useless bag of scrap metal Jack had pilfered from Hermes' waist was now the key to Isabella's escape from the underworld, and Jack could only thank the heavens that he did not pawn it or spend it on a saucy wench in Tortuga like he had intended.

They left the _Black Pearl_ around the time of Second Dog Watch, but there would be no watch placed that evening. The crew had retired early after the events that had taken place that day.

"Willie was right," Jack whispered as he led Colin, Jordan and Barbossa through the woods. The grandiose branches that hung high above the tree of death now loomed high above them, as well. "These coins do serve a much higher purpose."

With lanterns in hand, they traveled past the stone with the drawing of the tree and the chalice, then through the same reeds and bushes that Isabella once ran through to show them the way. Jack let the death tree's branches steer him as he retraced the steps of his dead companion. Sometimes, he could almost feel her spirit beside him on his journey, taking his hand and guiding him through the trees. By a cool breeze, the branches were shaken, and the chill traveled over Jack's skin and froze him internally as the roots of the great tree finally came into sight again.

The rope that Cotton had tied earlier in the day was still tightly knotted around a small tree's trunk, snaking itself through tall grasses and burying itself beneath the death tree's base at the edge of the passageway.

Colin quickly nudged Jordan as Jack and Barbossa made their way down to the dark passageway.

"Have you noticed that all the roots of this tree seem to travel in one direction?" he asked, receiving an odd look from Jordan.

"What, you mean _down_? Like all other trees?" Jordan said, chuckling.

Colin narrowed his brow, turning Jordan toward the left at the area that illustrated his point. "No, that way, then down."

He pointed toward a cleared area, where there was no grass or wild flower in sight. There were no marks of waterfowl, nor the essence of music from the birds above. They did not hear the merry sound of an animal's tripping feet, but instead, there lay a massive tangle of roots, fighting to reach down into the same spot of desolate dirt. No madness of a sick man's brain, ridden with fever and idle dreams could have imagined such a sight.

"What do you think it means?" Jordan asked, before cautiously making his way toward the entrance of the passageway.

'_Obviously, it's getting its life from something other than water,_' Colin should have said.

"I'm not sure."

"Oi! Step lively now. Haven't got all bloody night, now do we?" Jack yelled from the passageway, holding the lantern high above his head to light their way.

With an energetic hop, the two soldiers landed upon a soft patch of dirt just below the entrance of the tree, and quickly found their way down toward the grotto, where Jack and Barbossa patiently awaited for their arrival.

"Now, are ye sure this were you last saw 'im?" asked Barbossa, scanning the cave for any evidence of life.

The two men nodded, and began their search for clues.

The moments drew longer with a slow and sorrowful creep as Jack began to search the walls of the cavern, recalling how Isabella's eyes were the softest brown. He feared that never again he would he see his favorite woman on any shore, and through his heart he began to sigh.

'_I will grieve too much if I choose to leave you to such a fate_,' he thought, following a large root with his eyes, realizing that there were a number of larger roots grouping together and following one another to some unknown source.

"What's this?" he speculated aloud, which prompted the rest of the men to look in his direction.

Jack touched the dirt beneath the roots, and rubbed it between his fingers.

Dry.

He bit his lip, running his fingers beneath the roots as he followed their lead, quickly finding that with each consecutive step the dirt became wetter and soon turned into thick mud beneath his fingers.

The men followed Jack into a dark corner of the grotto where the roots seemed to convene into a tapestry of sorts.

"Light!" Jack ordered, feeling a whoosh of the lanterns as they were raised into the air beside him, aiding his sight. "Over here."

It was a remarkable sight – the roots were acting as hidden underground veins, providing water to the tree of death, so it could continue to suck the life from others.

Jordan stole a glance at Colin, thinking that perhaps the young man was right about the suspicious roots. "Do you think that its water the tree wants?"

"Highly unlikely," Jack replied, placing his lantern on the ground to roll up his sleeve.

"What are you doing?" Colin asked.

"Any fool can draw their conclusions from afar. On the other hand, it takes a _touch_of genius, and a lot of courage, to move toward the source," Jack said, slithering his hand inside the muddy wall, biting his lip as he forced his fingers through loose stones, roots, and dirt.

Jack was quick to find that his arm had traveled through a very shallow barrier, and his hand was greeted by a gust of fresh air on the other side.

He withdrew his arm with a glimmer of hope in his eyes, holding his arm up to the light of Colin's lantern to display a coating of thick and muddy residue.

"Now, that's very interesting," he affirmed with a smile, sweeping a graceful arm toward the wall. "By your lead, gentlemen."

---

Their descent through the roots and the mud of the grotto wall was very quick and highly disgusting, but beyond the mud and grime they found the markings of another passageway that was ridden with branches and roots, along with a dense fog to blanket their vision.

It was as if they entered a dream and with conscious eyes, they watched as nature - trees, flowers, and grass - grew silent, and they searched for stars, the moon and the sun grew silent as well. Perhaps, they needed silence to be able hear the souls of the damned. It seemed as though, they would have to be brave and to go into the woods on foot once more, for that was what their surroundings certainly implied.

It was dark, cold and damp, and it felt like they were there for a very long time. They attempted to open eyes in the darkness, but they could not focus, and they didn't remember how to turn their heads and look for danger.

They were too frightened already.

Jack attempted to become a warrior, and painted his face with determination to mask his true guilt. He longed for the woods, but did not understand how to leave, how to be in the world outside of the woods.

The woods would be the only real place to him, because its presence devoured him.

Barbossa and Jordan carried lanterns in each hand as they searched for the clearing, yet their feet still bled. Legend had it that if the dead drink the blood of the living, they would be able to speak, but they would not let them go back to the realm of the living. They'd have to be mindful of their surroundings.

They traveled for a long time, holding their lanterns, not straying from the path. They sought out the sun and the moon, hoping that they would be able to help in their navigation. Though, they figured neither would help; the moon was not able and the sun was not willing.

The men finally stopped at a clearing. A hooded figure appeared through the fog, and it was sitting by the path, mumbling low incoherent statements. They slowly drew near, attempting to listen to what the figure was saying.

Jordan was the first to speak. "Hello? Are you alright?"

The sound of his voice caused the head beneath the hood to dart up in his direction, and it began to speak. "Y-You will stumble upon a woman on your path. P-Pass her w-without a word and she will reveal herself to be a w-witch and eat you in two bites," the figure said, following its statement with a strange feminine laugh, "but if you ask her for help and share an i-interest in her, then she will give you g-guidance through the pathway to Hades," she stuttered, rising from her seat.

The men drew back; Jordan stood his ground even if fear compelled him to run away as she took several steps toward them. "D-Do not throw stones at the ravens. You may ask w-wolves for help, but you should not believe what they tell you," she whispered, taking a hold of Jordan's hand. "T-They do not think carefully. They do not think as we d-do. They are the minions of Z-Zeus."

She released him, and stumbled forward into the mist, disappearing from their sight, yet her words could still be heard, with a sprinkle of laughter in her voice.

"You will travel a long ways into d-dark. Find the b-boat and you will l-live. D-Do not throw stones at the r-ravens! D-Do not listen to the w-wolves…"

Colin rushed to Jordan's side. "Are you alright?"

Jordan's lips parted with astonishment, as he wished to find some sort of justification for what he had just heard and witnessed, yet he found no words to speak. Instead, he opened his hand to reveal that the old woman had placed a sharp stone upon the center of his palm.

"Do not throw stones at the ravens," he recited.

"Oh, bloody hell! Now, he's gone mad as well," Jack muttered with a flick of his wrist, feeling his heart quicken.

"No! If we can't throw stones at the ravens then why did she give me this stone?" Jordan asked, weighing the stone in his palm.

"Don't know, mate. All I know is that I'd rather not care to carry it."

Barbossa pushed Jack forward. "Best be goin' to find that boat, aye, Jack? It's the only thing we've got left at this juncture," Barbossa advised.

They all nodded in agreement and followed Jack further through the fog.

The fog led them further into the pathway into Hades, and all they were able to see were walls of thorns and they soon forget that they even knew anything else.

The world quickly became patterns of thorns, patterns whose repetitions they could have counted and memorized. It was a never ending pattern and it mesmerized them to the point that, for a fleeting moment, they did not want to leave; nothing outside of the thorns seemed real, and perhaps the thorns would take out their eyes and they would not see anything at all.

After what seemed like hours, they finally made their way through prickly thorns and brambles. The thorns ripped their clothes and skin while laying the delicate, pulsing network of their veins exposed to the cold wind.

If they had chosen to spend another few hours in silent pain, they surely would have met their demise, but they continued to press forward through a thin mist beneath the thorns, but stopped at the sound of a squawk and chatter.

A group of ravens stood before them, playing and flying amongst themselves as they appeared and disappeared amidst the clouds of thick fog. A larger raven sat at full attention toward the center, eying the group as they drew near. The ravens were dark messengers of doom, concerned solely with death and destruction along with the darker side of nature, and they were a force to be reckoned with.

The larger raven silenced the flock's clatter by stretching its wings, and a quick ruffle of his feathers, drawing attention to the intruders with a point of his beak. This raven looked crafty – so crafty that it could have a man in fits of laughter to distract him from the fact the raven was tricking him into doing something for him the man may not actually want to do, and it may cost the man dearly.

The large raven drew forward. "You have been watching us, and now you have tried to get close to us. Why do you do this?" squawked the raven.

Jack found himself crouching down behind Barbossa for protection as the bird stepped forward toward Jordan. Barbossa crossed his arms, and drew forward to joined Jordan and Colin as the raven's attention was now dangerously placed upon them.

Jordan looked down at the stone in his hands. '_Do not throw stones at the ravens_.'

"We've come to seek your help through this passageway," Jordan announced. "Will you help us?"

"Long ago there was no land to be seen. Then there was no land upon the ocean, and it was all open sea. The ravens soared above the ocean, until it became Earth. We've given you humans Earth. Tell me why we must help you again?"

"We intend no harm upon you, and we are thankful for what you have done. We just wish to pass in order to rescue one of our own," replied Jordan.

The ravens chattered loudly, ruffling their black feathers as their leader stood silent. Ravens, in particular, are a creature of paradox, and to take them at face value would be to ignore their devious nature. However, this particular raven was also swollen with pride, and realized that even with the danger of his flock posed to the four men, they did not throw the stone they possessed to kill him.

The large raven squawked, deciding to grant the men passage, but did not choose to show them the way. "You must press forward out of this garden or you will be caught in the thorns, and they will reach over you to block out the sky, and you will never return to your world."

Jordan nodded, giving the raven a small smile of thanks.

The large raven extended its wings. "You should know that we fight among ourselves too, and some of us die. It is a part of life and you must not disturb the balance."

Jordan averted his eyes to the ground and began to walk forward through the pack of ravens. Colin, Jack and Barbossa quickly followed in suit, making sure not to whisper a word that would change the raven's merciful decision.

"Do not listen to the wolves," the large raven squawked before they disappeared within the fog.

---

'_It hurts to come back from the dead, and it will hurt to bring someone back from the dead_,' Jack thought, biting the edges of his fingernails as he looked back to where the ravens were in the distance.

Fear plagued his mind and his senses, but his heart believed that the madness was worth it. She was caught in the same madness, or even worse, maybe she had become mad herself.

One thing was for certain, he must save her from such a terrible fate.

They traveled through the thorns once more, cutting themselves on the edges of the tiny daggers as they step through blankets of leaves and dead branches.

With each step Jack became increasingly frustrated. The woods were full of song, and the wind rustled the overhanging branches. There was no color to their surroundings, no end to their passage, and no stars to show them the way.

They continued up through countless greenwoods.

Why wouldn't the gardens let them go?

Jack stopped in his tracks; his keen sense for danger began to tingle as they walked deeper into the forest. "This is a trap."

"Most likely," Barbossa said grimly, scanning their surroundings. "The way I see it, waitin' here would be an even bigger trap, because there be many reasons to wait, and they want us to figure that out. There's no time to alter course now, Jack. We must move on before somethin' unexpected happens, and we've got no way of defendin' ourselves against those who already are dead."

Jack shivered, feeling cold lifeless hands upon his body. The spirits of the damned were surrounding him, pushing him forward into the mist.

Barbossa placed a hand on Jack's shoulder, startling him from his thoughts. "We are not welcome here, Jack. Can ye feel it, just as I?"

"Aye, one would anticipate that the living wouldn't be welcome in the land of the dead," Jack said, beginning to lose hope altogether as they continued on. "What if we cannot find her? Perhaps, it is vain to continue to seek her. It's not like we lay a trap for her."

"The pathways to Hades are not as clear as the markings on our charts. Nay, the lines become unclear the farther we go, but methinks, Jack, that you're afraid of somethin' else."

Jack huffed, crinkling his nose. "Well smite my bloody soul, Hector! Do tell, for it seems that you possess an excess of insight into the nature of things along this pathway. What else should I be afraid of other than the threats of sudden death from witches, ravens, wolves, and thorn gardens blocking out the sky?"

"Yer afraid to face her again," Barbossa said, tilting his head.

Amid the leafy shade of thorns where a ring-necked dove cooed, a deep rustle in the trees startled their conversation to a stop.

"You're sleepy, sweet ones, sleepy, and your eyes are closing fast," whispered a voice – a voice far too sweet for Hades.

"Come, sleepy ones, we will lead you to where the dog-rose blooms," rasped another voice, sounding as if its owner had traveled for miles on foot.

"We will give you a bed of the soft moss on which to lie and dream," said another, and they heard more rustles beginning to surround them.

"Grand old trees form an arch above us, and we will rest beneath their shade. Come, rest with us, and we shall blanket you and keep you warm all through each bitter night."

Cold northern winds blew, and the leaves fell fast from the sturdy oaks around them. More rustles could be heard, but their surrounds were densely obscured by the fog to see from whence they had come.

"Leave the cares of your world, and come with us," the voices said in unison, beginning to move forward into the forest.

Barbossa, Colin and Jordan stood with their backs toward one another, attempting to identify the voices as Jordan drew his sword. However, Jack found himself following the voices, cocking his head to the side in thought.

"Lie down beside us, precious ones, until the spring," howled another voice. "Yes, come with us. Follow us to the garden's end."

"Jack! What are you doing?" Jordan shouted, reaching forward to grab him.

Jordan made an effort to stop him, but Jack couldn't help but beckon them forward. "The old hag said to not listen to the wolves, but she didn't say anything about not following them. It's best to keep a steady mind, gents. Clear as a whistle."

Colin shivered, rubbing his arms with his palms to generate heat. "A steady mind? I don't think that's possible at this point."

After a long while of following the rustles deep within the garden, the men were finally relieved to come across a clearing. As they appeared through the hanging branches of white willow trees, they caught a dancing light, and it revealed Jack's statement to be true, for a pack of wolves now began their decent upon them.

There was a river flowing nearby whose murmurs were sad. The river's gentle ripples fell upon their ears, and caused them to feel a sudden surge of bitter grief, although they could not weep, but they could not shut the river out.

A maze of roots began to move beneath their feet, crawling between stones and tall grasses toward the sounds of the river, letting out small sighs of relief once they reached the banks.

The river was nearby, they all could sense it, and all they needed to do was follow the roots.

Barbossa leaned in toward Jack. "We need to be findin' that boat, or we'll all be doomed."

"You must eat the roots of evil to save others from evil," the head wolf howled, making its way into the clearing.

She was an enormous silvery gray-brown, with light tan and cream under parts, and a large bushy tail. She growled, causing the fur to grow darker around its neck and shoulders as she stared at them with eyes of the iciest blue.

"And you must eat stones to bring someone back from the dead," said another other wolf that still stood amongst the pack.

Jordan felt an instant connection with the leader of the pack that continued to stalk its way forward, which caused him to look down at his hand and reconsider his decision. All of a sudden, he was mesmerized by the stone, and Jack quickly noticed Jordan breaking down mentally, and caught his attention.

_Do not listen to the wolves._

"You mustn't, you heard what the witch said, lad," Jack said, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"She was a witch, Jack. How do we know that she was not lying to us? She said do not throw stones at the ravens, so she must mean that we must eat the stones to bring Isabella back."

Jack grimaced, realizing that Jordan was no longer himself, and chose his words carefully. "How do you know they're not lying to you?" he retorted, taking the stone from his hand.

Jordan followed the stone with his eyes. "Why would they lie to us, Jack?"

A vivid growl came from around the clearing; it was the sound of desperation for their next meal.

"That's why," Jack muttered, shaking Jordan from his delirium. "Er, mate, I think it's not in our best interests to linger any longer. By the looks of it, we've seemed to have worn out our welcome."

"Run!" Barbossa yelled, causing all four men to dart forward as if they could feel the wolves' snapping jaws and long jagged teeth inches from their feet.

They ran into the night; their figures were blanketed by fog but their scent was still present. They listened carefully to the pack behind them as the fog began to thin. The light of a distant moon lit their way, and a southern wind gently blew them forward, allowing them to gather speed with their steps.

A rustic bridge that arched a river finally came into sight, and beside was moored a small boat. With a sigh of relief, and a cold sweat running down their backs, they continued to run toward it, for it was their only hope.

Jordan looked behind him for a moment, attempting to spot the wolves that were in hot pursuit, but instead he spotted a black raven's feathers gleaming amidst the fog, and a soft squawk came soon after as it plunged down upon one of the wolves, causing it to fall from the pack, howling in pain.

The ravens were saving them.

"Quick, into the boat! Hurry!" Colin yelled as they ran down the banks toward the moored vessel.

Jack quickly retrieved the rock from his pocket and tossed it to Jordan. "Cut the line! Now!"

Jordan was hesitant, shaken in his stance while looking up at the wolves that were now nearing the edge of the riverbank.

"Cut the damn line, lad! Or we'll all be killed!" Barbossa yelled, his eyes growing wide as the wolves began their descent.

"Hold on!" Jack shouted, deciding to take matters into his own hands. Grabbing the stone from Jordan, he cut the line himself, and pushed Jordan into the boat.

Jack and Colin hauled the small vessel forward into the rivers current before the wolves were able to board along with them.

The stone seemed to have had a strange effect Jordan, causing him to grow distant and aloof for his first few moments aboard, but they all seemed to sigh breathes of relief. The four men hoped that they were finally safe, at least for the time being.

---

Night tumbled from the sky and set its blackness on the water and refused to lift. The small boat drifted blindly and the men were clamped in a nameless grief. They could hardly bear the sound of their own voices, but spoke to each other in whispers.

The night wore on and did not give way to dawn. There were no stars and no moon visible to their eyes as they continued on drifting westward and waiting for dawn, but no crack of light appeared in the sky.

The darkness refused to lift.

It seemed as though they were amidst a week of night, until finally, a feeble light did curdle in the sky – not a regular dawn, no joyous burst of sun, but a grudging milky grayness that floated down and thickened into fog. Still, the men did not dare to sleep, for day was no better than night, and no man could see in the dense woolly folds of fog.

Still the east wind blew, pushing them westward through the curdling mist, and still Jack did not dare to sleep, for he knew from his own experience that the westward rim of the world was never short of surprises, and was probably studded by murderously rocky shores.

Barbossa kept a wary eye on the rocky inlets, imagining what sort of creatures would dwelled in such an environment. Perhaps, there were creatures that waited quietly in the fog for boats to crack upon their shores and deliver to them their natural food – the soft flesh of living sailors.

All night they sailed, following the white flashes of gray light, and when night came there were no stars and no moon, nothing but choking blackness again. Jack shifting himself toward the front of the boat, but the bow tipped forward and the stern arose, causing the small vessel to slip through the water with a rushing speed as if it were sailing downhill.

"Have you ever heard of a river sloping?" Jack asked, turning to Barbossa as the boat began to shift between currents.

Barbossa lifted his head confidently and managed a weary smirk. "This truly must be the waterway to the underworld, and we are not the first keel to cut these waters. We can only hope that the gods grant us passage again, goin' the other way."

"Rivers do not run like this, Hector. No, the spirits are pushing these waters," Jack whispered, peering down into the blackened waters.

"Ya don't have to tell me that, Jack. These are waters tracked by those who have died on land," Barbossa said, crossing his arms.

Their eyes connected, and Jack finally realized the implication of his statement.

By his hand, Hector Barbossa's soul had already traveled those waters.

A painful memory emerged. '_Isla de Muerta, Jack. Ye shot me_.'

After what seemed like hours of roaring waters, the boat finally leveled, and they sailed out of darkness as through it had been a curtain and found themselves in a bizarre place.

The dark river before them had narrowed into a stream, but the water was still as black as night, accenting the dark sky above them.

Through the thinning blankets of fog, they could now see ghostly apparitions along the blackened shores. They looked as if they were passengers on a day-boat that ran aground, and washed up on that godforsaken island. Shaken and sodden, the apparitions stared out at them with empty eye sockets.

The wind began to howl, sounding as if the ghosts were attempting to reach out to them, but couldn't make themselves understood.

"I've never been one for ghosts," Colin stammered, finding his stomach uneasy at the sight.

Jack's brow rose at the sight. "Seems to me that we've found a reliable guarantee that the afterlife will be just as exasperating as this one, have we?" he asked, turning to a visibly uneasy Jordan.

Jack smiled as he approached him. "Oh! What's this? Where has your cavalier bravado gone, _Lieutenant_?"

Jordan pointed forward to a figure in the distance. "It left with him," he said. If fear was solely a state of mind, Jordan would have certainly disagreed at that moment, for he was sure that the _thing_ he was looking at was the embodiment of fear.

They darted their eyes forward into the mist, though they could not believe the scene that was unfolding beyond the blankets of light fog. The men could not help but watch as a large, demon-like creature forced reluctant sinners onto his boat by beating them with a large oar.

Their screams could have been heard from the land of the living.

---


	28. Constant Sorrow

**A/N**: Sorry for the long wait, gents! I needed some extra time with this for creative reasons, so I hope you all enjoy it. As always, thank you Nytd for your fantastic beta work.

Also, I'm assembling a hypothetical cast in case this story was ever to become a movie. I've got a few people lined up so far, and they are at the end of this chapter. Let me know if you have any suggestions!

Enjoy!

* * *

_**Chapter 28 – Constant Sorrow**_

"Whisper on a scream, doesn't change a thing  
Doesn't bring you back, blue on black."

_Kenny Wayne Shepherd_

---

By the tranquil merging of the stream into the Acheron, the souls of the dead reflected on how they would pass restfully beyond the scope of the sun. However, that notion was unreachable when they arrived at their destination, causing them to hide far from the demon man that waited to ferry their souls.

The sleep of immortality did not await them in the place where life and love had been long forgotten. The only sounds in their ears were the faint trickles of the waters beneath, and the screams of those that were waiting in line to depart along the last leg of their journey to Hades.

Before entering the plain on its passage from rugged highlands, the Acheron flowed through a profound and gloomy gorge, which was one of the darkest and deepest of the glens that the human mind could only imagine. On either side precipices rose sheer from the water's edge to a height of hundreds of feet. Their ledges and crannies were tufted with dwarf oaks and shrubs. Higher up where the sides of the glen receded from, the mountains rose to an unfathomable height over woods of black pine, adding to the somber magnificence of the scene.

A precarious footpath led along a perilous ledge high up on the mountain side, from which the dead gazed down into the depths of a tremendous ravine. The deep and quiet stream could be seen rushing and foaming along, often plunging in a cascade into a dark abyss, but so far below them that the wailing of the souls was lost in mid-air before it could reach their ears.

Barbossa had no mind to wait in line to confront the demon man, dragging Jack along in his confident procession.

Jack was only conscious of black silence and eternity as Barbossa dragged him further. They were silently being followed by Jordan and Colin, though he knew the silence would not last for long. Jordan had his own plans in mind - stupid ones, like all the other whelps. Not only that, but he was sure that Jordan wouldn't let Barbossa speak for very long, and reminded himself to stand far away from Jordan when they spoke to Charon.

In the beginning, there was not dread, Jack never feared the long ennui of infinite time, and so for many years he thought of little, for he cared for nothing other than immortality. He was who he was, and that was all he was. In one day, the earthy dampness of the grave greeted him, and he could have shrieked aloud when the true meaning of immortality that he desired was finally unmasked, showing it's true colors. The immeasurable pain _she_ bore when he first laid eyes upon her mirrored how pained _she_ looked when her final breaths escaped her.

He couldn't help but feel responsible for such pain.

The dead were the only ones who knew the sights and sounds of the horror that bound them. It was the cries and wailing of pain that they heard in that lonely and desolate place that would surely bring them nightmares, but many would thrill with horror at the cry of some dead body lying near them who woke as he walked by, and found itself still conscious, even in death.

"Yer very quiet, Jack. Grief becomes you."

With a slight wrinkle to his nose, Jack let out a growl. "I hope you've prepared a good treat. I doubt you can say anything acceptable to the likes of him, but I've gathered that you're not too proud to beg. Try to stay off your knees, Hector. I can't tell you what it does for your reputation."

"Oh, I'm sure you'd be the one to know the implications of _that_, but I'll not be the one on my knees," Barbossa said, smiling wickedly. "Mayhap it will be the contrary, when yer on yours beggin' for _her_ forgiveness."

"Not if she kills me first," Jack said softly.

"One can only hope."

The smell of the sweat exuding from their bodies struck the onlookers with the same force that it struck the demon man, prompting him to look away from his work.

'_Three heartbeats. Nay, there are four. Mortals_.'

His nostrils flared.

"Where are you mortals going to in such haste?" the demon man demanded, snarling at the four men who had approached him with such conviction.

Barbossa swayed to a halt, interlocking his fingers together diplomatically. "What occasion prompted ye fer a new boat, Charon?"

"None at all, if I had a mind to be wrecked again in the Stygian Lake," Charon replied sarcastically as he eyed the man cautiously, attempting to decipher his familiarity.

"Is it because ye had too large a company?"

"Yes," Charon said simply, with a slight edge to his response. His large company was a result of Hera's corruption, but he had no voice or significance to speak against her, especially not after she provided him with a new vessel to keep him from rebelling. "I came hither to provide myself with a good strong three oared boat; for my boat was so rotten and leaky with age that it would not carry such a burden. I have suffered through that shipwreck already, and the bodies still swim with the frogs."

"Ye carry shadows, not bodies," Barbossa corrected.

"They are nothing but water spiders today. Tomorrow they shall rest forever in the bellies of their worst nightmares. Yet, there may be enough of them to grab a hold of my boat as we pass, but you know we are just shadows just as they."

"I remember once that ye had a great company, an' your boat would not hold them. I 'ave seen three thousand hangin' upon yer stern and you were not able to sense any weight."

The demon laughed, dropping the heavy oar to the ground beside him. "I confess that I carry too many at once. Some have passed slowly out of the body, being reduced to little or nothing with consumptions and hectic fevers, but as for those that are torn out of their bodies, they bring a great deal of corpulent substance along with them and they are sent away to the shores along with those who have not paid for their passage.

"You see, my business is to steer, the ghosts are to row. I have no respect for persons of rank. Kings and Cardinals row with me, and every one takes his turn as much as the poorest peasant, whether they have learned to row or not.

"The French and the Spaniards bring much less weight with them than the rest, but their ghosts are not as light as feathers either. As for the Englishmen and Germans that feed well, they come sometimes with such weight that I'm in danger of going to the bottom in carrying only ten, and unless I had thrown some of my lading overboard, I would have lost the passengers all together."

Jordan huffed, becoming irritated at the nonsense Barbossa and Charon were discussing. "But they don't bring anything along with them. They come naked to you."

"So it seems, but at their first coming, they bring the dreams of all these _things _along with them," Charon explained, trying to grasp the concept of such thoughts.

Colin narrowed his brow. "Are dreams so heavy, then?"

"They load my boat," he said, chuckling after a moment. "Load it, did I say? Nay, they have sunk it before now, but discussing my boat is not the real reason why you are here."

"Charon, my friend, we've come to negotiate-" Barbossa began.

"We're here for Isabella Selene," Jordan interrupted, hearing Barbossa growl in the background, but he didn't care, his general was waiting to be saved.

'_Stupid whelp_.' Jack sighed, placing a hand on his face out of embarrassment.

A piercing laugh filled the air, prompting the souls on the small boat beside them to wail in horror. "Is that so? I've never heard of her," he said, sweeping an elegant arm out to the endless line of dead souls. "It's best that you start looking now."

---

In the deeps of the netherworld, one with yearning eyes would await her presence when the day sinks into night and all the heavens are fair. In her tireless watch, the tearful Queen pent in the wide expanse of Hades, gazing across the darkness of the dense nether air as she searched for her own peace of mind.

Up rose the hideous shapes, screams of terror and phantoms pale. They were the people of her sad realm, and she heeded not the bitter wailings that will not be stilled in death. Though doors of adamant were closed on them, the sooty winged phantoms continued on in their flight, bent on some errand from their awful King – errands that she was not allowed to hear, nor see.

The triple barking of the beast of hell brought her mind far beyond the scenes her gaze was set upon, and to her ears came other sounds than these.

The barking caused her to recall the words of her King. Her sweet mouth trembled when she heard him utter his word with such a clear depth to those gloomy eyes. "Persephone, until earth yields you up, may cows not find their pasture, springs run dry, and let no blossoms come to apple tree or pear!"

Sweet musings of a wicked monarch – musings that she fell for without question.

However, the sounds she heard past the hideous barking were not the sounds of familiar wailing or woe of the dead. No, what she heard dwindled along the lines of the living. At that moment, the air filled with the stench of sweet human flesh and bone.

No mortal could hope to enter the World of the Dead and return, but these mortals were different.

---

"But you must know her! She's young and she has brown hair," Jordan began, struggling to depict what Isabella _looked _like, but found himself interrupted by an impatient finger.

"Most of the dead that I ferry are young, with cherry-red lips and hair black as the raven's wing, but here they are old, so old that they now possess short white hair that has almost all fallen out. I do not have the time or the patience to learn their names and listen to their life stories. I have a duty to fulfill to my King."

"She must be here! She was brought by Ares himself! Surely you must have seen him. We've come such a long way, and we're not leaving without her," Jordan protested, realizing that their negotiations were not as convincing as he once thought.

"Ares brought me only one soul that I care to remember, without payment. The one you seek is one of many and you will not find her easily. You will probably not even recognize her, because your mind is frail, and too fragile to see what you do not wish to see. As you've said, you have come a long way already, but that's all the more reason to turn back," Charon said, stealing a glance at the boat of souls moored behind him. He was growing irritated as the moments drew on, and wished to return to his duties.

The wailing of the poor, abused souls grew silent as faint footsteps echoed in the mist.

"She has hair like yours, long and coarse, dark and wavy. She wears a tunic of the purest white, but is covered in filth. She is shorter than you are. She has mole in the center of her neck and a scar on her chest from her battle," said a voice, not too distant from where they stood.

Out of the shadows appeared a robed and hooded figure, carrying a sheaf of grain. It was a woman with a distantly archaic smile, yet she was demure. She was the culmination of a thousand beautiful flowers from the earth and the farthest verge of the salt sea.

"Hector Barbossa," she said with a smile. "I thought you would never return to me."

Barbossa drew forward rather confidently, closing the distance between him and the goddess in a few short steps. "Persephone, my Queen, how could ye think of me in such a way? Do I appear to be one that would renege on a bargain?"

"It has been too long since I've negotiated with sea nymphs, but Calypso seemed so _desperate_ to have you back. It almost seemed like she wanted you all to herself, really. I thought was never going to see your face again."

"I'm not one to disappoint," he said, narrowing his brow.

"So you aren't, for here you stand," she said, turning to gaze down the shores of the shadowy River of Woe.

"Nonetheless, I must say that I'm pleased to hear that I do not possess a face that ye can easily forget," Barbossa said, smiling wickedly. "I'm naught but a humble servant."

Persephone turned to face Barbossa, ignoring his statement. "Her arms are swollen. Her tongue is also swollen and chapped, and it has been bleeding from reluctance."

Isabella had a sharp tongue when necessary. Jack knew it well enough, and he wouldn't be surprised to have seen her unleash it, even in death.

"She is young enough to be your daughter, but old enough to be an ancestor, and she is only bones. Is this the woman you seek, Hector?"

'_She is only bones?_' Jack thought, feeling his stomach twist into knots from such an image.

"Yes, we've come to negotiate her release," Jordan said, noting Jack's apprehension as he stepped forward into address Persephone.

"Negotiate?" asked Charon, bringing a hand to his chin. Jordan's talk of bargaining obviously sparked his interest.

Barbossa unlatched a small pouch from his side and tossed it to the immortal being. "Twenty-nine obolus coins in exchange fer one soul. Do ye recall 'er now, Charon?"

Charon fumbled with the pouch, opening it to reveal the shiny silver coins, and absorbed them with his greedy eyes. His hand slide through the light fabric on his waist, finding the object he was searching for.

With a flick of his wrist, Charon tossed the thin metal item to Barbossa and whispered, "One soul."

Barbossa peered down at the object in his palm, and sneered.

It was a key.

Persephone smiled, brushing past Barbossa, allowing her hands to travel along Jordan's face and chest. "You know, she looks like you, beautiful warrior-king. Lean. Muscles. Scars. She looks _just_ like you, actually. Only she is dead," she said, running the back of her hand along Jordan's cheek, appearing to enjoy his mortal warmth. "She is in constant sorrow."

Jordan flinched, leaning away from her icy touch, but could not help but be entranced by her beauty. "Do not fear me, warrior-king. Afar, shaded by willow and poplar, flows the silvery woeful river of the underworld. You will find her upon her shores, and you mustn't go far from where we stand; her hell won't allow her to move."

"What should we do when we find her?" Jack asked, finally finding his voice.

She laughed, adjusting the tunic upon her shoulders to warm herself from the cool breeze. "You will kiss her. Everybody knows that."

Jack would kiss her. It was the first thing he would do when he laid eyes on her again out of sheer impulse.

"But how do we help her?" Colin asked, making his presence known to the goddess, but Persephone was not interested in the fair haired warrior. Instead, she was interested in the dark skinned man, adorned with long knotted hair, and dark eyes of the deepest brown.

She shrugged her shoulders as she approach Jack, seeming reluctant to elaborate for a moment. "Draw the needles out of her arms, and stop the blood with your mouth. She is not helping herself anymore, and she hates to move.

"It will hurt," she whispered, encircling Jack. "Paint your face now, so that you look like the warrior in your dreams and thoughts. There will be snakes crawling beneath your skin, but only one of you will truly feel it. You might vomit from the pain, and because the snakes are sickening," she said, looking into his eyes as if she were reading his thoughts about Isabella's death. Her narrowed brow confirmed that she knew that it was by _his_ hand that she was dead.

"Release her from the shackles and lie down next to her very carefully. Wrap your arms around her. She will not hug you back. Rest your head on her shoulder. You will have to go to where she is in her mind. Close your eyes. It _might_ hurt. No, it _will_ hurt. You can cry, but it won't help."

Jordan and Colin looked at one another, attempting to figure out who would be the one to travel such a journey into Isabella's mind to save her. Jordan averted his eyes to Barbossa, who stood unmoving, staring at Charon in silent deliberation.

"She will turn her head and look at you. Call her name. She will recognize you and smile. She is so tired, and she hurts. She hurts so much that she is confused. She doesn't know where she is. She won't thank you when you come back. She will blink and try to kill you.

"Take her by the hand. Hold her tightly. Give her one of your torches to warm her. Don't worry if she doesn't talk at first. Voices take a long time to come back, and then lead her out. Don't look back," she said, moving forward with them into the mist.

A few moments into their journey, Jordan finally broke their silence. "Why are you helping us? You'll get nothing from this. Charon now possesses the coins," Jordan said, finally letting his curiosity get the better of his mind.

Persephone stopped in her tracks, slowly looking over her shoulder. "I owe the woman that you seek far more than words could ever explain, warrior-king. She brought _my_ Ares back. Ares is my brother and I will forever be his loving sister. Your woman did not deserve this fate, just as much as I didn't deserve mine."

"There are some souls that cannot escape their fate. Hera designed a Hell just for her many years ago. I would know, I was ordered to do it. Ares has no power over it, for he cannot upset my King."

The goddess sighed softly, sweeping a hand out before her. "I cannot venture any further with you. My King will not be pleased to know of your arrival. You must go now, swiftly. Do not lose your way."

Persephone caught Jack's arm as he passed her by, her grip prompting him to stop. He looked into her eyes.

'_There is no way to truly bring someone back from the dead. Body, mind and soul will be permanently affected, but you will make the journey anyway. Hold onto her when she is released, she will take you back. The gift of immortality is no longer with her.'_

In a moment, Jack's eyes were on the ground. He attempted to pull away from the dark goddess to continue on with the others, but she stopped him.

'_Do not return to this place, it is not your fate to rest here.'_

Again, Jack tugged away from her grip, and finally pulled away from her with greater force. He didn't look pleased at all.

She sighed, wondering if he had understood her, but it was no longer her concern.

---

The ghosts that rose from every darkling corpse were thin and pale, and in agony. Each was greeted by their own hell, which was not visible to their eyes. Instead, the apparitions wandered aimlessly along the shores, screaming, pulling out their hair, and begging for mercy every so often.

From what, they did not know.

On a path winding upward toward the foggy shores, black vipers fluttered their wings with urges to fly, draping the black stoned as they hissed. Their features were sprinkled upon the mud as if the land was made of quills and the inkwells of skulls were filled with black water.

They came to a field glittering with the thousand sloughed skins of arrowheads and stones seemed to shudder with their footsteps as if they were leaping forward to give themselves into the broken hearts of the living.

As they reached the heat-rippled shoreline, they closed their eyes. The luminous beach dust pounded out of funeral shells. The wing and the egg shaped stones, broken war-shells of slain fighting conches, and dog-eared immortality shells were visible in the dull light of the moon. The waters slithered up upon the shores once more, containing invisible fingers of ghosts grasping the sand to catch a breath of air before returning to the depths. Each time they returned to the shores, the lost souls clutched the muddy sands for mercy, unwilling to return to the River of Woe to repent for their sins.

It was as if they had walked out from themselves among the stones of the shore. They watched as the bodies of ghosts bloomed from every angle into the fog to float out over the trees, seeking to be one with the unearthly fires kindling and dying in the dark forbidden forests of Hades.

With the flame of a nearby bonfire, the flesh of the bodies pealed off their bones, the hunger to be new lifted off their souls and an eerie blue light bloomed on all the ridges of the netherworld. They gasped at the sight of the blood sacrifice; the souls had taken the fire into their arms, and burn themselves to ashes.

One soul was still running.

His neck was broken and he could not scream, but he continued to run, holding his head up with both hands.

But he would not die, for he was already dead, and his time in Hades would be spent aiding a forever broken neck.

He must have been thinking of the flames, for in an instant, he threw himself into the bonfire of corpses, in an attempt to alleviate the pain of his broken neck.

The corpses would not stop burning.

With mental instability and fear, they continued on, away from the burning corpses and into the fog. Jack couldn't have been more apprehensive, but it was not the first time he visited the doldrums of death. However, that wasn't a good enough reason for him to stop his shaking.

Jack walked a step or two behind Barbossa, who seemed very confident in his sense of direction.

Barbossa surely knew the landscape better than the rest of them, so the haste in his step was from guilt more than fear. Jack would be on his knees begging Isabella for her forgiveness, and he did not have the same plan in mind. Retrieving her from Hades would be apology enough, he supposed.

Jordan and Colin were walking side by side, attempting to gather a deep awareness of their surroundings – a soldier's frame of mind, yet they were tired and sick of war. Its glory was all moonshine. Those who have neither fired a shot nor heard the shrieks and groans of the wounded are the one's who cry aloud for blood, for vengeance, for desolation. War was hell, and they knew it well.

After a few moments, Colin nudged Jordan on the shoulder, pointing out a long shape in the distance, which turned out to be grimmer than they anticipated.

As the men drew near, the shape turned out to be a long wooden stake with the torso of a man separated from his head. The torso was ripped open, as if it were being eaten by an unknown, invisible source.

"Oh, how_ endearing_. Our valiant betrayers are here to salvage what's left of their little whore," the head said, with a shriek of laughter. "And there's not much, to my knowledge."

_Hermes._

"The war has started. Can you feel it, soldiers?" Hermes asked, focusing on Jordan and Colin. "You must think that war is such a cruel thing. How it easily separates and destroy families and friends, and mars the purest joys and happiness granted us in this world. It fills our hearts with hatred, doesn't it?"

Jordan didn't humor him with an answer.

"I think it's rather delightful. Exhilarating, even. It's a mad game that we all love to play, because it restores power to those who should rightfully possess it. You see, young soldier, it's natural to kill and be killed. There's no training necessary, because it's just so naturally _human_."

"I'd beg to differ, _capitis_. You kill because you are afraid of our own shadow," Jack said, narrowing his brow at the head.

"You are afraid of my shadow as well, _Mr. Teague_," he said with a laugh. "I can see you trembling in your boots right now. A little dignity, if you don't mind. Only one thing is for certain in this world – as long as I can speak, expect me in your nightmares. Now, go. Save your little whore, before her time runs out – if it hasn't already."

"Let us go," Barbossa said with a firm grip on Jack's shoulder. "Tis not wise to linger 'ere."

Jack shrugged it off and continued on, not even looking back when he heard a deafening shriek coming from Hermes' direction. Whatever had been eating him before had certainly returned to finish the job.

They walked on again for about another half mile. Now, the shores were utterly deserted. Beyond them, no living thing broke the blank perspective of emptiness and desolation. No sound broke the solemn stillness of the netherworld's night. All the life and heat of day were dead. The utter solitude of the hour and time seemed intensified by the contrast. Insensible as it was the quietude had its influence on them and dulled their senses.

A cry in the dead of night startled Jack from his doldrums. The other men did not hear it, but he did.

Thus, in this horrible apathy, this dead insensibility to all outward things, night changed to morning, and morning to sunset, and sunset to night again, but his loyalty and his unswerving belief in her existence could not be altered, even if she were to tell him that it did not matter, and that she had no care for life.

He was willing to save her even if she accepted her demise.

Then through the fog he saw her, and he wasn't so brave anymore. Several yards in front of him was where she was, on her knees, clothed in nothing but mud ridden sheet of white fabric, and chained to two large boulders behind her. Her head hung limply from exhaustion.

Shaking his head, he refused to believe what his eyes were showing him. It couldn't have been her.

No, it simply couldn't be.

From behind, it seemed as though she had dragged the boulders a short distance before she finally gave up, dropping to her knees in hopes for mercy.

The first thing he became aware of was the fire he felt in his legs as he pushed forward through the muddy shores. He ran to her, and dropped to her side. The next thing he became aware of was the dull, dead, aching pain around her wrists, they were enclosed within iron shackles.

With both of his strong, but shaky hands, he cupped her face. "Bella, can you hear me, love?"

She smiled.

Barbossa, Jordan and Colin quickly found their way to his side, and spoke to her as well.

"General!" Jordan said, checking her neck for any signs of a pulse.

Jack grimaced, slapping his hands away from her. "There's no pulse you bloody fool!"

And then she began to speak.

"Can I come home, now?" she asked faintly.

Jack sighed in relief. "Of course you can, Bella. We're taking you home. Just hold on a moment, love," he said, looking over at Barbossa for the key.

"I'm so glad you're back. Many things have happened since I've been away, Mother. I'm sorry I did not come to find you sooner. The traitor lost both his name and his face. Ares took his head, and left him broken and dead. He will no longer seek us."

The group paused with her words, realizing that they weren't directed toward them.

She smiled again. "We're safe now. Can I come home, please? I can show Father how I've learned how to fight. I promise that I'll never leave again."

With a disapproving nod of her head, she let out a small laugh. "Prove it? Alex, you'll be the first to find out!"

Suddenly, her head shot up, eyes still tightly shut. "Where are you going?"

Jordan quickly got down to his knees beside Jack. "We're not going anywhere! We're right here!" he said, trying to sound enthusiastic.

Jack dropped his hands to his sides, wide-eyed in disbelief, but Jordan was quick to take over, lightly tapping her face. "Wake up, wake up, wake up," he whispered.

"S'not wise, lads," Barbossa said, pulling them both back away from her. "Tis best to keep our distance fer now."

Just as they thought she had calmed, a passionate fire erupted within her. Rage overtook her limbs, tensing her every muscle, and then she stood, pulling forward with all her might as she attempted to pull the boulders forward with no avail.

"No!" she screamed, feeling her tears overwhelm her eyelids. "Don't leave me again! Stop! Don't leave!"

She pulled forward again with all the strength she had left, digging her toes deep within the muddy shores of the Acheron for leverage against the boulders, but she could no longer budge the massive weight.

With her final cry, she dropped to her knees again, losing a tormenting fight with her mind. Isabella Selene, a grand general of her time, was reduced to nothing but a caged animal.

A long moment passed before her head shot up once more.

"Can I come home, now?" she asked.

Jack crawled beside her again. "Of course you can, Bella."

"I'm so glad you're back. Many things have happened since I've been away, Mother. I'm sorry I did not come to find you sooner. The traitor lost both his name and his face. Ares took his head, and left him broken and dead. He will no longer seek us."

That was when they realized that she was in cycle of utter misery.

---

_**Hypothetical Cast**_:

**Isabella** – Kristen Stewart (Though she would have to eat and go to the gym a lot), or Megan Fox

**Padraic** – Cillian Murphy

**James Moore** – Peter Facinelli (With red hair, of course!)

**Jordan** – Chad Michael Murray

**Ares** – Gerard Butler

**Hermes** - Paul Bettany

**Hera** – Miranda Richardson

**Persephone** – Liv Tyler


	29. Home

**A/N:** I've finally managed to re-write this chapter after losing it to the evil blue screen monster that lives inside PCs. The beginning of this corresponds to the end of the previous chapter.

Barbossa shaped cookies go out to Nytd for all her help!

Enjoy! :)

--

**Chapter 29 – Home**

**---**

Toward the land at the southwest; the lustrous sun stood over a glimmering earth forming a border between the city dwellings in the distance and the half-hidden, wavering night hills of the landscape. The rising and falling surf of fields, groves, and meadows had their grass-waves drenched by the stone-cool flood of sunlight, while overcast by a fleeting darkness of immense white clouds. They flowed out and back again, making the land hot and cool, shadow and light from a twofold source. For several moments, the sun was submerged in blackness, only allowing several shafts of light to venture out into the courtyards, the squares, the streets, and to spread out over all that was visible in the distance.

There were homes there, in that place, they were nothing remarkable in the way of grandeur or elegance, yet the very atmosphere as they entered filled with sweetness like the smell of that field. It was the aroma of love.

Obliquely opposite of the main street, the city opened into the square that was swept through brightly by the sun, darkened only here and there by higher houses, and the sun could only be ascertained by the sweep of the roofs that extended to the outskirts of the town in a slight double curve.

Her people would wander out there, into those streets, because all boundaries were opened and no one would be capable of halting a wanderer in her city - nothing could overtake them, nothing could confront them, and not even the divine could stop them in their wandering. The path they had followed would be that of comfort and confidence, because they were home. They were in Alexandria.

Neither summer suns could scorch such a feeling, nor could frosts blacken or destroy it. It was not hard to see why the Romans became so infatuated with such a beautiful place.

Almost daily, ships from every corner of the globe docked on each side of the Heptastadion, a thin strip of land connecting Pharos with mainland Alexandria. Sailors loaded and unloaded their wares: silk and rice from the Orient, grain and corn from the fertile valley of the Nile bound for Greece and Rome, along with ivory from deep in Africa.

When Isabella was naught but a moon child, she remembered entering her home by land with her family, and how unforgettable an experience it was to enter through the Sun Gate. A straight, double row of columns led all the way from the Sun Gate to the Moon Gate, which caused her to wonder what was greater – the aura of the place and its beauty, or the city itself and her subjects.

The grassy waves outside the walls of her grand city were where she once played games with her brother, Alexander, and where they would spend hours basking in the afternoon sun, speaking of things that were make believe and worlds of fantasy beyond their own paradise.

However, those days were long forgotten, until then. It felt entirely too real; the crunch of brittle grass beneath her knees and feet, slithering up between her toes. Though, she still attempted to rationalize the scene that was displayed vividly before her eyes.

Perhaps it was a painting. Of course, that was the only plausible explanation - she was staring into the grandest painting in all the world, and she was standing so close to it, that it was almost real enough to touch.

The colors were a mystery of the gods. The blue strokes depicted cold wet grass and above her head were cliffs of sandy cream, reflecting the yellowish light of the afternoon sun. As she looked down, the cream dimmed to a fluorescent beige, and darkened into a deep glowing turquoise.

Some of the blues were stained by brown - scatters of fine dirt and a fuzz of blighted grass - everything around her was familiar, normal, and healthy. Even the grass beneath her feet was soft and not marred by thistles, and overall the field before her was a brilliant shade of shimmering green.

The artist clearly painted nothing short of a miracle.

However, something mysterious was happening.

In the distance it was early summer, with an azure Egyptian sky and a late afternoon sun. The air was clear and sunny. However, the foreground where she knelt was plunged in a mystical shadow. The sun seemed to be shining at the crest of a hill before her, which caused her eyes to become fixated on it.

After a moment, she heard brilliant but familiar voices along with faint rustles of grass originating from just over the crest of the sun drenched hill.

"Leave the fishing-rod, my dear husband, to us poor rulers of Pharos and Canopus. Your game is cities, provinces, and kingdoms," said a most charming feminine voice, as if it were knowledgeable enough to make its originator agreeable to every one.

Isabella's heart fluttered, because just a short distance away from where she knelt appeared the most influential woman in all of Egypt and all of history, Cleopatra VII.

She was a woman of unsurpassed beauty at that time, when she was in the prime of her youth and at her most striking. Cleopatra was holding onto Isabella's father, Mark Antony loosely with her slender fingers, but with enough of a grip on his arm to alert onlookers that he belonged to her and no one else.

Her voice was brilliant enough to make almost every man turn and look upon her. She was listened to, and held the power to subjugate every one, even a love-sated man like Caesar, who was already past his prime. Thank goodness Mark Antony was a man far greater than Caesar. Mark Antony was more a fair ruler, and divided his lands between her, her mother, and her brother, to ensure their future as monarchs of Alexandria.

"My clever wife," Mark Antony replied, flashing a bright, loving smile. "If cities, provinces, and kingdoms are all I'm good for, than I'm not much of a husband, am I?

His voice prompted Isabella's mind to return to her childhood. When she was young she thought that there must have been a true miracle somewhere in that field, and out beyond the gateways of her home. And at that moment, she thought she was experiencing something so tremendous that she knew she couldn't fathom the implications of it. Looking at the two figures upon the hill was like looking at an eclipse – unexplainable, but too beautiful for her to think about looking away. Her miracle was standing just a few paces away.

"It not a question of being a good husband, my King." Her voice was as melodious as ever. "It's a question of providing the best for our family."

The wind allowed her long thick hair to fall in tapering ringlets on her neck, and was crowned with an intricate chaplet in which was woven every kind of flower. Just above her brow shone a round disc, like a mirror, or like the bright face of the moon, which told her subjects how influential she really was. Vipers rising from the left-hand and right-hand parting of her hair supported this disc, with ears of corn bristling beside them.

Mark Antony held her within his arms for a moment, stopping her from taking another step. "My love, you worry far too much. Caesarion's grown into a man now, and our children are more than well provided for," he said, grazing his fingers along her cheek. "Let us leave the scheming to Octavain and the Romans. We shall forever be at peace now that our daughter has returned to us."

Mark Antony's eyes were upon Isabella now, scanning her with a smile, and he whispered in Cleopatra's ear, "Did you know she formed her own army in our absence. Can you believe it? Our little girl turned into a fierce lion and made her father proud beyond belief."

"I knew she would grow into your exact image," Cleopatra responded with a half-hearted smile. "To my dismay..."

"You say things you surely do not mean," he said, hooking a finger beneath her chin. "She's more like you than anyone."

Isabella was several steps away from her parents, whom she hasn't seen in almost eighteen hundred years, and she could do nothing but tilt her head back to the clear blue sky of her home, finally giving into her delirium, which was far too sweet to deny any longer.

Her arms grew limp and her breath quickened as her mother approached, brushing aside her many-colored robe of finest linen as she kneeled before her broken daughter. Her glistening white attire clung to the swaying breeze alongside the fragments of the mud-ridden garment worn by her only daughter.

Their eyes locked for the very first time in centuries. They were two women of the same creed in two entirely different conditions, finally united together for what Isabella hoped was the rest of her afterlife.

What caught and held Isabella's eye more than anything else was the black luster of her mother's mantle - a mantle she always stole away from her as a child. It was embroidered with glittering stars on the hem and everywhere else, and in the middle beamed a full and fiery moon.

"_Bella, can you hear me, love?"_

Isabella smiled. '_What a familiar voice_,' she thought, feeling the skin of her cheeks grow warm, as if someone had cupped their hands gently around her face.

"Cleopatra Selene, my moon child, you've done so well," she cooed, tucking loose strands of her grimy hair behind her ear.

In the past, anyone who would even mutter a syllable of her real name would receive the sharp reproach within mere moments, because no one could live up to the way her mother said it. She was the only woman who could have brought peace of mind with such a cursed name.

"Can I come home now?" she asked desperately, looking to her mother for hope.

"_Of course you can, Bella. We're taking you home. Just hold on a moment, love."_

Jack?

"You're already home, amore," her mother answered, placing a cold, but comforting palm on her shoulder that brought her back to the scene before her.

"I'm so glad you're back. Many things have happened since I've been away, Mother. I'm sorry I did not come to find you sooner. The traitor lost both his name and his face. Ares took his head and left him broken and dead. He will no longer seek us."

She smiled again. "We're safe now. Can I come home, please? I can show Father how I've learned how to fight. I promise that I'll never leave again."

"Well done, my child. Now, you must rest. No more fighting, not while I'm around."

"Sister!" The voice whirled them all around to face a spot at the crest of the hill. Cleopatra moved aside as they searched until they were greeted by the appearance of a small boy with dark, curly hair bobbing in the afternoon sun.

Alexander?

He wore his midnight hair like a long straight cloak so that it was hard to tell where hair ended and his black duster coat began. He was dressed in all black except for a gleam of his white shirt that shone like a star amongst all the blackness.

No, it couldn't be - he was too young - far too young, and looked not a day older than twelve.

"Sister, you've come back!" he said happily, skidding to a halt before her and embraced her in his tight grip.

His warmth was far too real.

First her parents, and now him?

Alexander's hot breath radiated a surreal warmth throughout her body as he panted upon her collarbone, and she realized why her parents had named him after the sun. He was just so naturally warm.

Was she twelve as well?

She gazed beyond her brother's tangled locks to her mother and father, who looked at her with warm, inviting smiles.

Did it really matter if she was twelve or not?

Not at that moment.

Isabella smiled, finally feeling a moment of great happiness with her long lost, murdered brother, and attempted to move her arms to embrace him after so many years of mourning his absence, but found that she couldn't move at all.

Isabella stole a glance at her numb, outstretched arms, and found that her wrists were bruised, and bleeding as if her skin was rubbed raw from invisible iron shackles that were far too tight. They tortured her in foul decay, wrought with her tears and blood, and caused her great pain, but she could not move to stop the bleeding. At that moment, she hated moving, because it only brought on more suffering.

However, she allowed herself to think that she was, in fact, twelve at that moment. That could only mean one thing - that her parents would soon meet their demise after Octavian's invasion of Alexandria.

It was the alarming news of the decree that her half-brother, Caesarion, was to be killed as soon as possible that drove her mother to kill herself. She joined her father on his tomb in death. The frightening vision of Octavian's Triumph in Rome, where she and her siblings were made into the main exhibits of a victory parade was vividly brought back to life in her mind.

The chains of gold that locks her arms and legs together was what she remembered the most. They were so heavy that she could barely walk as she attempted to dodge rotten vegetables thrown by the crowd.

She would forever be a prisoner, and her brother would face an early death.

Closing her eyes, Isabella tried as hard as she could to pull her arms forward against the pain of the shackles to hug her brother - whom she might never get to hold, touch, or see ever again - but she could not move.

Her efforts were interrupted by her father. "What do you say? Are you willing to give your sister another go?" Mark Antony asked, crouching down to meet Alexander's height.

"Sure, sure. If she doesn't kill me with her stench first!" he joked, holding a hand up to his nose. "She'll have to prove herself!"

With a disapproving nod of her head, Isabella laughed softly. "Prove it? Alex, you'll be the first to find out!"

Alexander smiled and rose to his feet before her, along with her parents. "Come with us, sister!"

Isabella's head shot up in surprise. "Where are you going?"

"_We're not going anywhere! We're right here!"_

"We're going home now, remember?" Alexander said, waving her over to where he stood. "You have to hurry! It'll be night soon!"

"_Wake up."_

Storms of rage erupted from within her, for she would not let her family walk away from her again.

"_Wake up."_

Blurs of colors streaked through the rain of grass. Shadows and light crashed in midair, leaving her helpless on the ground as she watched her long lost family walk away from her.

Fury overtook her limbs, tensing every muscle in her body, and then she stood, pulling her arms forward with all of the strength that she had left.

"No!" she screamed, feeling her tears overwhelm her eyelids. "Don't leave me again! Stop! Don't leave!"

She pulled forward again with all the strength she had left, digging her toes deep within the grass beneath her feet for leverage against the force that held her back.

"_Wake up." _

"Come on!" Alexander exclaimed from the crest of the hill. "You have to hurry, or else you'll get lost!"

Her brother's very last words pierced her heart so thoroughly, that she lost all hope and will to fight.

A laugh could be heard in the distance, audible to her ears alone, and it signaled that Hera had won the battle.

---

The air of the underworld was far different than that of the surface. To living souls, to breathe was to live, to be alive, and to have life. To draw a breath - the breath of life, and walk the earth after having no life to breathe, was far more painful than one might imagine.

She had always imagined a brilliant white light that would take her to the heavens, but she had it wrong; the white light was what brought her back to the realm of the living.

The first thing one does once brought back to life was scream, and she did plenty of that from the pain of her body reawakening.

She screamed from the agony, from muscles reviving from numbness, from joints popping, and from the most painful thoughts her mind had encountered in years.

Once her screaming finally stopped, she looked up at her surroundings, and jumped her to feet with a renewed vigor.

For a moment, she stood, staring at the four men before her, not entirely recognizing them, but she listened to them breathe as her body trembled, unable to move, and unable even to raise a finger.

"General?" Jordan finally called out to her, holding out his arms, but she backed away.

Then, she gradually felt herself coming back to her senses. Her muscles began to function as the deathly coldness left her soul and the blood began to course through her veins again.

"Isabella, it's us," Colin said. "You brought us back…"

Isabella looked at Colin and Jordan, finding a certain calmness in being able to recognize them, but her eyes pierced straight through them, passed Barbossa and finally to Jack.

With the return of life, arose a madly overwhelming desire to run away. She moved back a pace or two and looked at Jack as if he were just a dream or a menacing phantom before her eyes.

Isabella's instincts won over any argument her mind might have had to stay and listen to any sort of attempt at an explanation, and she turned and hurried out of the clearing, running through the trees and ducking beneath overhanging branches, never looking back, never stopping, until she found herself clear of the ghosts and out in the open once more.

Then she slackened her pace as her bare feet slapped lightly upon wet sandy shores of Guadalupe, and for the first time, she breathed freely again. Her first thought when she recovered her composure was of what had just happened; her body, mind, and spirit dying along with the continuous pain of death, experiencing Hell, seeing her family for the first time in centuries, and Jack - standing above her as her executioner and savior. She smiled as his face crossed her mind. If they had braved the demons of Hades in order to save her, then surely she would be found again, no matter how far she ran.

She sat down underneath a sheltering hedge by the shore and placing her tired head between her hands, trying to think what she should do. Where was she to find rest? All worn out in mind and body as she was, she knew that she could not go much further. However, to return to Jack after all they had been through seemed impossible, and the very idea made her body shudder.

Furthermore, she was resolved that no roof would cover her until she had reached her journey's end, and had her revenge on Hera. For that night as for all others on her way, she would sleep under the heavens. Some little way further on, she might find a sheltered nook wherein to lie, but she would not stop – she refused to even think of defeat.

Then, she rose to her feet and trudged onward through the sand. The soft moving twilight had long passed and given place to the silent beauty of the summer's night. The shores were deserted. To the right and to the left before her or behind her as far as the eye could reach, no human or moving creature was to be seen, and the whole earth seemed to be desolate, and she the one creature left on it. No Cain wandering the wide world under the ban of Heaven could have felt more desolate and abandoned than she did then.

Her steps presently brought her past the far ends of the shoreline, striking off from the trees and stretching right away onto another shore that faced the glimmering light of a half moon. Making her way along there for a little distance, she stepped over the low hedge which divided the shores from the island's vegetation, and for that night she decided to keep herself hidden by the branches. There, under the leaves of a large tree, Isabella finally stretched her weary limbs.

Lying there in the stillness of night – stillness broken only by the sighing of the breeze among the trees and the rustling of the leaves – and gazing up at the stars nestling so cozily in the bosom of the sky, her mind finally spoke to her, and she thought of what a haven of rest and refuge that very bush seemed for the poor tired soul tossed on the tempest of the world.

The reflection crossed her mind that perhaps it would have been better for the gods to have left her be so many centuries ago, to die of a natural death in the hands of another gladiator, and let it all end there like it should have. Perhaps things would have been much simpler if Hera had just tolerated her son's power; if she had never accepted Hera's proposal.

Her real name would have been naught but a ghost of the past, represented as a fine Queen in countless books of history, even if it wasn't her legacy to begin with. At least she would have been remembered as a powerful woman of her time.

Now, what had she become? Her perpetual life was far from glorious. After so many years, she continued to be just a renegade – a revolutionary – that hid beneath bushes and branches waiting for the perfect moment to strike her adversaries as they passed by.

And she awaited revenge with every fiber of her being.

As heroic as that may have sounded to anyone else, she was no better now than she was when the gods found in her cell in Rome – still bloodthirsty as ever, and willing to do whatever it took to achieve some sort of retribution.

It was apparent that she had not advanced at all.

Shaking her head in disbelief, she finally let tears overflow over her eyelids. For a moment, she thought she would be content to be left in the company of her own thoughts, but she was wide of the mark in that respect.

What a sad life she'd lived, and there was no return, no rest, even in death.

For some time, she laid there staring at the sky with a world of thoughts all jumbled together in blank confusion, whirling through and through her mind. Yet, somehow, she could make nothing out of it all, but that a great mist was risen between her other existence and herself now – a mist that shut her out from all things that were of the world in which she had previously existed.

It was difficult for her at that distance of time to recall what her first emotions were as the realization of the awful strangeness of what had happened finally hit her. It was a dazed, bewildering sensation, something akin to that of a person who had been buried under the ground for a long time and should find themselves suddenly taken out of the grave, and recalled to life again.

Only three things were absolutely clear to her. There was the sky above her head, the ground beneath her feet, and there was she – the woman who, for all intents and purposes, was the living dead.

One last thing was for certain as well – she was alone, and if she had learned anything in her bane of an existence, it was that loneliness didn't suit her.

And so, she was left alone again, to her own silence and meditation, by her own doing.

Slowly and heavily, time wore on.

Seconds turned into minutes, and minutes into hours.

She began to count, hoping that the seconds would go by faster.

"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight…"

For a moment, she felt as though she was the only living person in a land of darkness, so now it seemed as though she were a visitant from the other world, moving grimly and silently among the living.

"Nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen…"

Then she found that she could not help but fidget with herself and her surroundings. Even though her body was weak, it seemed as though her muscles acquired a newly invigorated spirit, and knew nothing of the pain.

Isabella seemed to have acquired several nervous habits all at once, beginning to stoke her face, move her feet and toes, and stretching out her long dirty gown as she shivered. She became more and more agitated as the minutes drew on.

"Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two…"

Her counting hastened as if hysteria was finally nearing. The bustle of the trees, the hum of the breeze, and the stirring ocean all grew louder in her ears, causing a malicious overload of her senses. A faint but familiar whistle could be heard from where she sat, and was the sound that ultimately triggered her frantic outburst. Her body began to sweat inwardly, as if her organs were trembling, and she couldn't control herself any longer.

Rising up to her feet, Isabella burst through the bushes that allowed her shelter for those brief moments of sanity, and ran forward upon the moonlit shores, cutting her arm on a branch on her way through.

The evening breeze took her mud-ridden garment along in its passage, along with her hair, and it allowed her a moment of cold comfort. However, the sudden tranquility that the beach offered couldn't mask the warmth she suddenly felt traveling down her forearm.

She looked down for several moments, and waited for it to heal, but nothing happened.

"Shit," she whispered, clenching her fist with all of her strength until her fingernails were about to cut into her palm.

She held her arm out, unsure of what to do or where to go.

"Oh, no. Shit, shit, shit."

With little else to do, she ran into the waves and splashed a handful of salt water onto the cut, trying not to wince from the pain it caused her.

The waves cleansed the mud from her feet and calves as she crouched to let the water engulf her forearm for a moment until the cut grew numb. It didn't take long before the silence of night was broken once more by a faint whistling, which prompted her to cock her head to the west and rise to her feet. She began walking forward to see who it was, and grew anxious when she found that there was no one there again.

Whatever it may have been, the low whistle drew her forward into the darkness, forcing her to be on her way again. Tramping steadily along sandy shores, she soon found herself nearing a large, black object on the beach that was completely engulfed by darkness, and blending into the dark sky and bottomless ocean beyond the shores.

As she walked through the shadows with the peculiar sensation of a woman walking in a trance, the busy murmur and hum of voices around her fell upon her ear with a deadened far-off sound – the crew upon the ship seemed like nothing but moving shadows of a dream. Twilight was fast melting into darkness as she reached the end of her journey to the _Black Pearl_.

Instinctively, she stopped. Something in the solemn hush of the island, something in the ineffable peace and restfulness that hung over all things there, seemed to find response in her heart like an echo from the world of shadows she had just left.

With a last look at the shores behind her, she bid farewell to that dead part of herself which she had buried beneath the earth, and continued on her way.

---

The night had come down strangely dark, and Ragetti's mind was only conscious in occasional flashes, drifting in and out from daydream to daydream. His mind was working, even in the vast phantom of the mist that had risen from the sea.

He kept staring into the night as he sat on the rail of the _Black Pearl_. He looked primarily toward the west, because death was quite a disquieting sort of thing to think about.

Unable to shake the horrible feeling that that something beastly was going to happen any minute, he continued to stare. Two bells came and went, and still all was quiet--strangely quiet, it seemed to him, so he started to whistle absentmindedly.

"All's well?" said a voice behind him.

"Yeah," he said, gulping. He was not entirely startled by the voice, for he was still in a very distant place; he just hoped that no one from the crew took his song as a warning of something ill on the horizon. He was whistling without thinking. "Sorry. Heard it from a girl once, I reckon it don't matter much anymo', but I can't shake it from me 'ead some nights."

At the sound of his voice, the old valley of the shadow of death became as bright and as cheerful as the valley of Teivy on a clear summer morning in May.

_Ah_. Isabella thought of when she herself was passing through the pathway to the valley of death, and when the dark river sang faintly, yet so sweetly to draw in the unsuspecting. Perhaps, it was the same song, sung by someone less deceptive.

"Stranded lightship," he said, continuing to look down at his feet. "Ne'er left port … Odd life for a ship, if ya ask me."

"Was she a friend?" Isabella asked again, attempting to summon the best Henry voice she could muster.

"Aye, but it ain't the first time I've lost a frien' … No use in wallowin' though – not over things ya can't change - s'what Gibbs keep's tellin' me; he'd know a thing er two, right? S'a funny thin' though – the unchangeable; it makes ya feel helpless sometimes. Can't do no good and ya can't do any worse … Make's ya realize that nothin' is fer certain. Mind you, s'not an easy thin' to live with either."

"Yeah, it is funny. We can't change our past... And we can't change the fact that people will act in a certain way," Isabella said with a sigh. "You're right, though - we can't change the inevitable. The only thing we can do is play on the one string of hope we have left. I am convinced that life is not so much about what happens, but of how one reacts to it. And so it is with you..."

"Those are jus' a bunch o' fancy words, if ya ask me."

"So, what are you doing then, if you're not wallowing, of course?" she pried, noticing that her question seemed to have prompted him to straighten in agitation.

"Oi, mate! I didn't ask fer no company, so bugger off …" he began, turning to face someone who he thought was a curious crewmember, but found someone completely different. "Oh, bollocks."

He had been a ghost for so long, sailing as the living dead for ten years under a curse that plagued him so, but it was still unsettling to find himself fascinated by the one standing right in front of him. Judging by her mud-ridden attire, she had crawled to Hell and back again.

He finally broke into the grandest smile she had ever witnessed, and laughed, pointing at her in awe. "Oods bodkins! I bet my bollocks tha' ya'd still be alive!" he said, looking down for a moment. "Thank goodness fo' that! No worries, lads!"

Ragetti rushed over to her side and embraced her. "Wait till I tell Pintel, and the captain – er, well seems ta be _captains_ now – but Jack! Jack will be …" His voice trailed when he realized that Isabella was starting to back away slowly. "No, no, no! Don't bugger off! I didn't mean it before!"

"You can't tell anyone I'm here!" she said, still uncertain if this was the correct path to take.

The sound of loud voices - loud arguing voices - along with the clatter of heavy footsteps became audible from the starboard side of the _Pearl._ Soon after, Jordan, Colin, Barbossa and Jack appeared to have returned from their long journey in search of where Isabella had run off to.

"Well, where was she when you last saw her cut through the trees?" Colin asked Jordan, attempting to map out the island in his mind as Jordan explained what he saw.

"There be no use in frettin' fer now! If anythin' she'll turn up by mornin'," Barbossa reasoned.

"Or she'll not," Jack said, narrowing his brow. "Once she sets her mind to something, the bloody woman can't be reasoned with."

"Hide me," Isabella whispered to Ragetti before the men turned to acknowledge them. She felt herself panic.

"Seems ta be a little late fer that now, Miss…"

In an instant, the four men stopped, and looked up at the sight before them.

Isabella seemed to have found the _Pearl_ well before they did.

Silence was scarce on a pirates' vessel, even more scarce than women, but that seemed to have found its way on board along with her.

Her eyes widened, and the impulse to run overwhelmed her again, causing her to seek refuge in the great cabin.

Jack was the first to go after her, nearly splitting his head open as she closed the door to the cabin before he could enter. However, that did not stop him from erupting into the room and locking the door behind him before she could make another daring escape.

They stared at each other for a moment in silence. Isabella was in the center of the room, beside the chart table with her lips drawn back showing her even teeth. Jack's quiet eyes were wide open, soaking her into the dark abyss of his irises.

"Don't touch me," Isabella croaked, attempting to catch her breath.

Jack reached out to her regardless, and she stood her ground, moving her hands away as he reached for her, and again they stared at each other without a word.

"Don't," she said hoarsely, backing away from him just as fast as he stepped toward her.

Neither spoke, for awhile. No explanations were necessary at that moment. Then, he went slowly towards her holding out his hands and seized both of her wrists from her chest. The strength of his arms felt enormous to Isabella's mortal bones.

"Please," she whispered as he held her tightly to his chest.

"I'd not take a woman unwilling," Jack said, averting his eyes. "If anything, you should be certain of that by now."

He cleared away a small patch of grime from her forehead with his thumb, and planted a small kiss upon it - the kiss he promised himself he would give to her, if he found her alive.

Without another word, he released her from his grasp and turned on his heel, exiting through the large French doors of the great cabin, and left her where she stood.

Outside, Jack found himself under more scrupulous eyes - he couldn't escape them anywhere, he supposed, but that was no surprise. The least he could do was reestablish his presence as captain.

"Now then, you," Jack said, rounding himself to a halt in front of Ragetti. "Fetch her a basin, with hot water, and fresh clothes from one of the trunks in the hull. Mark me well; if I hear so much as a complaint from her about the water being frigid, I'll see to it the _Pearl_ get's a fresh coat of a color far more sinister than black."

"Aye, aye, Cap'n!" Ragetti responded, and slid along past Jack feeling slightly dazed and a tad bit frightened.

After Ragetti departed, Jack muttered something about waking the crew, and made it clear past Jordan and Colin to retrieve the wheel from Barbossa.

All those years that he stood at the wheel, his mind often went blank and incapable of thinking of anything other than the vast sea before him. He hoped that it would have the same effect on him now, even though the sensation came and went with Barbossa's presence.

"That certainly didn't take as long as I expected, Jack," Barbossa said, attempting to hide a small, crooked smile. "Iffen it were me in yer place, reunited with a woman I'd done wrong by, the crew would be lucky to 'ave seen me face fer the rest of the week, let alone the next mornin'."

Jack laughed, attempting to make light of the situation while absentmindedly passing his fingers long his beard. "I'm not even going to dignify that with any sort of response, seeing that we're entirely too close to shore to throw a man overboard."

"I'm not exactly the one ye owe yer response to," Barbossa said, turning the wheel slightly northeast. "The more ye avoid sufferin', the more you will suffer."

"Yes, yes," Jack nodded, dismissing him with a flick of his wrist. " But, if I may plant a thought into your garden of sagely advice; the last time I checked," Jack retorted, turning the wheel back into it's prior position. "I'm not the only one that owes her a response, mate."

"Is that so? The way I see it, I've learned to accept things a tad bit more gracefully, so I'll not be so inclined to worry as much as ye. She'll come 'round to me - tis just a question of time, but it's you I'm not so sure about."

Barbossa paused for a moment, realizing that there was a great stillness over the sea. There was absolutely no wind, and even the everlasting creak of the timbers seemed to ease off at times.

"Do ya feel it?"

"Aye," Jack replied, feeling a shiver down his spine. "I suppose that they're after us now as well."

---


	30. Ghosts in the Fog

**A/N: **Certainty is a funny thing, offers a bit of security and ease concerning certain situations. Oddly enough; certainty is never really for certain, is it? Oddly odder, is the fact that most of us truly enjoy uncertainty more than we'd like to admit.

Allow me to make you feel a bit more _uncertain_.

---

**Chapter 30 – Ghosts in the Fog**

---

At the wheel, there was nothing to do. Ragetti might just as well have been forward, drinking with Pintel and those two odd looking English chaps in the forecastle. The crew had weighed anchor as soon as Isabella was secured inside the great cabin with her basin, and were now heading due west into the vast Caribbean Sea.

Down on the main deck, Ragetti could see the loom of the lanterns that had been lashed up to the sherpoles in the fore and main rigging.

The night was still quiet – strangely quiet.

Three times already Jack had been down on to the main deck, prowling about, while he waited for Isabella to finish her bath. He and Barbossa crossed paths a number of times, scowling at one another and occasionally speaking in low whispers. Ragetti certainly couldn't make out what they were saying, and actually wasn't sure if he really cared at the moment.

Suddenly, the time-keeper struck three bells, and the deeper notes of the bell radiated fore and aft along the vessel.

Ragetti gave a start; it seemed as if the bells had been struck right behind him, perhaps even dangerously close to his ears. Gibbs promptly made his appearance on deck, and muttered a word or two about there being something unaccountably strange in the air that night. As he answered Marty's "All's well," there came a sharp whir and rattle of running gear on the port side of the mainmast.

Concurrently, there was the shrieking of parrel up the main mast and Ragetti knew that someone or something had let go of the main-topsail haul yards. From there came the sound of something parting, then the crash of the yard as it ceased falling.

Gibbs shouted out something unintelligible, and jumped from the ladder. From the main deck there came the sound of running feet and the sounds of their captain's shouting.

"Fetch the lamps!" yelled Jack, leaning slightly to the left as he narrowed his brow into the darkness.

"More lamps, ye mangy bilge rats!" Barbossa was singing out. Then he swore at the sight of the damage.

He sung out something further. Ragetti caught the last two words, which sounded much like, "carried away."

"No, Cap'n's," shouted Gibbs. "Don't think so."

A minute of some confusion followed, but was quickly interrupted by the click of the pawls.

There was a period of time filled only by the clicking of the pawls and the sounds of the creaking timbers and the running gear.

Gibbs voice came again. "Everything seems all right, Cap'n's!"

Ragetti never heard Barbossa or Jack's reply, for in the same moment, there was the chill of a cold breath at his back. He turned sharply and saw something peering over the quarterdeck rail. It had eyes that reflected the lamp lights weirdly, with a frightful catlike gleam. Beyond that he could see nothing with any distinctness. For a moment, Ragetti just stared, looking frozen.

Those eyes were so close.

Then it moved toward him, and Ragetti jumped, snatching a lamp. He twitched around and shone the light towards it. The thing, whatever it was, had come forward over the rail, but now, before the light, it recoiled with a horrible litheness. It slid back and down – out of sight.

Ragetti could only remember its vile eyes, and then he found himself running. He felt crazy, but he ran as fast as he could to the break of the quarter deck and down the ladder, missing his footing and landing hard on his arse at the very bottom.

The crew was putting away the capstan bars, but at his abrupt appearance, and the yell he gave out while falling, one or two of them ran toward him to find out what had happened.

"What's goin' on 'ere?" Gibbs asked, rushing over to his fallen shipmate.

"Fell on yer arse somethin' wicked, aye?" Pintel asked, looking very amused.

"Hush, I say!" Barbossa commanded as Ragetti hurried himself to his feet. "Master Ragetti, what's the meanin' o' this? A bit more coherently, if ye wouldn't mind?"

"I swear on me life; I saw a pair o' gold, glassy eyes that glittered with some sort o' evil, sir."

The crew chuckled as Barbossa sang out a hearty laugh, and then stopped at his sudden spark of seriousness. "Get back to the wheel, Master Ragetti. That's an order."

---

It had been the second time Isabella had washed in the great cabin of the _Black Pearl_. At that point, she was no stranger to the haphazard condition of the room, successfully navigating around a pile of clothing and plates of half-eaten food as she made her way out of the basin. She dressed quickly in whatever items of clothing that were provided for her, almost as if someone was watching, and sat at a nearby chair that was used for the chart table. She could go no farther; her strength had deserted her and her consciousness was failing, and she still hated moving. She clung to the very edge of the chart table, and peered down into the basin at the muddy water she left behind.

Jack was a ghost to her by that point. His presence in the room was felt, but not acknowledged until he filled one of his hands with water from the basin and sprinkled the cold drops in her face. She revived, looking at him at first with gratitude then with fear.

Her first instinct was thankfulness for the kind gentleness he'd shown her. Her first impulse was to acknowledge it, but this was followed by the recollection of who it was that helped her, and the terror that this knowledge awoke overwhelmed every other thought.

"Why are you here?" she demanded, reminding herself that he had turned against her, betrayed her trust, and killed her for his own selfish reasons. No doubt she had regained her strength at that point, ready to shield herself if she even suspected he might try anything.

"You know, I like you like this. Arrogant and proud, full of your own strength again." The words left his lips before he could even think about taking them back. He _liked_ her? Not exactly something she wanted to hear. He would know, having been in her situation in the past.

Jack pushed away a sudden memory of his charming murderess, Elizabeth Swann, sealing his fate with a more than passionate kiss of death. One could never forget the last moments of life before meeting death, so he remembered that day all too well. The brisk wind, the smell of charred air from canon fire, the _Pearl_ in near ruins, the unnaturally vulnerable look in Elizabeth's eyes as she approached him, and the taste of bitter ambition on her lips. Little did she know that she had fallen casualty to her own plans of betrayal. Tactics of her own, she had. However desperate said 'tactics' may have been was debatable, but she played the game well – far too well. All things considered, she had learned her lessons.

He'd said it once, and he'd certainly say it again – peas in a pod.

_A bloody murderous pod, filled with the remnants of their honor and decency. _

Funny thing was that Elizabeth might have lied to him the entire time, which was something that made her much more like the pirate she so desired to be. At first, he would have wagered that she probably cared just as much about killing a man as one could care about emptying the ashes out of a pipe.

But what drove him mad was the fact that she didn't believe that he had the gall to go down with his own ship. Hurt his pride, it did. Considering that he couldn't even die on his own terms, she had robbed him of that freedom. As if he didn't know the Kraken was after him, which was his reasoning for rowing out in the first place – to save the crew and the _Pearl_ from such a wretched fate. How likely it was that Jones would employ the services of a beastie that was too bloody stupid to realize that it's target was no longer on the _Pearl_.

At any rate, he was done with that and most importantly, done with Elizabeth Swann.

Time and tide.

_God save that poor whelp, William Turner. He'll need all the help he can get. _

Whatever Elizabeth's reasoning may have been; he wagered poorly. Elizabeth did care, and far too much. She _was_ sorry. Remorse begets remorse. Jack finally understood what she must have felt like. It was like killing a man – a conscious, brave man who looked calmly into the barrel of a pistol and said, "Who's afraid?" The message seemed so near that, because the shooter was just as afraid as the target.

So who's afraid? It seems as though everyone involved in the equation had their own taste of fear.

And there it was, right before him, glimmering all around in his eyes. The reason why Elizabeth sailed to the Locker to find him after all the trouble she went through to get rid of him in the first place. It was the very same reason why he journeyed to the Netherworld to bring his Bella back.

_His Bella. _

_Did he lov- _

_No, don't speak of it. Too late, mate. It'll only make things worse. _

The first night that she was in his arms, he knew where he'd be spending the rest of his days. Now it was too late. What they had shared was brief, and he was scared, so scared that his stomach generated a nervous palpitation that made him seasick for the first time in thirty years of sailing. The sad part was that so was she, visibly trembling all over at his presence.

Jack took a step toward her, but she turned her back on him. Her evident resolve caused her to keep her eyes from meeting his own until she was finally safe when he left the cabin. He could even not attempt a word of an explanation that she would understand. She had certainly gone through too many confusing sensations during the last few days to be able to get her wits about her so soon.

Everything had turned out surprisingly _unlike_ what Jack had planned, as if he were living out a series of unstoppable incidents in one of his worst nightmares. He had never meant to kill her. In fact, he had sought her out with the purpose of making amends because he cared for her, but at in the end, he felt as though he had betrayed himself along with her. So, he found himself dismissed with internal anger and contempt - dismissed and not allowed and not able to say one word for himself in defense.

Jack finally cleared his throat, along with his thoughts. "Question is, love. Why are you here?"

When she had somewhat recovered, she remained silent and leaned against the table, clinging onto the edges as Jack took a seat beside her, rolling out a rather large chart onto the table's surface. The orange light from the lantern was on her pale face and sparkled along the water drops that hung from her hair, her lashes, and that trickled over her cheeks. She did not wipe them away; it was like she did not feel them. They were not tears. She could not cry even if she tried, for she had no emotions left inside of her.

"They're after all of us now," she said calmly, folding her hands at her waist. "I can feel them."

_Where else could she go?_

They were dirty drops from the basin, drops that symbolized the level of lowness that she had finally reached in her life. She had nowhere to go, no one to confide in, and no one to care for her. She looked with unswerving eyes behind her at Jack's hand, delicate but quivering as he scribbled a note or two down on a piece of stained paper. His shadow swayed and shuddered in the lamp light, flashing unrecognizable shapes briefly upon the walls of the cabin. She saw this and observed every movement that followed.

As the candlelight flickered from his gentle exhalations, she realized something rather miraculous. She loved him, or rather the man he had been, and all she wanted was to erase what he'd done to her and achieve some form of normality.

Was she completely mad? That was certainly not the direction she intended her thoughts to take.

He had come to her with a lie on his lips since the very beginning, for he was bound and fettered in heart. He had betrayed her best, dearest, truest right - to love and be loved. Another might have wooed her as he had wooed, but she couldn't help but prefer his wooing over all. Though she had not cried over him; the vacant form of her heart had an unnatural hollowness that wouldn't allow it.

Her bosom rose and fell at every fearful thought, and it was like a knife piercing her over and over again. The mental anguish translated itself into physical suffering so closely. Were those forces correlated? She stood in two spheres, and spiritual and bodily anguish were as one to her that that point in time.

Absentmindedly, Isabella began passing her fingers across her chest, tracing over the area that her scar once covered.

"Does it hurt?" Jack asked casually. He did not lift an eye from his charts, ultimately appearing to be uninterested, even if it was quite the contrary.

"It's not there anymore. Although, it seems to have migrated," she said with a sigh, looking down at the hand that covered part of her forearm. "Perhaps it's happier there."

"Can't imagine why that would be," Jack replied, smirking rather deviously as he gestured toward her bosom, "considering the company it had in its prior location."

That made her smile. _Thank goodness for that._

A few moments of silence ensued. He did not know what to say next or how to even begin justifying his conduct, so he simply chose not to speak altogether.

"It reopened while I was washing," she said softly.

Jack's eyes scanned her hesitantly as she slightly lifted the hand that covered a small area of her forearm. She inspected the cut beneath for a brief moment.

Jack cleared his throat, raising a knowing brow as he inched toward her. "May I?"

"No."

Jack rolled his eyes; feeling a bit exasperated from her behavior already, and attempted to grab her wrists. "I can help you."

She slapped his hands away, rubbing her hands together as if she were trying to erase his touch. "I don't need help!"

Jack took a moment to recollect himself. "Let us make an arrangement that we can both agree on then, hm? You show me what you have under that pretty little hand of yours, and I'll leave you be for the rest of the night. Not a peep, a whisper, or a glance in your general direction - I swear to it. What say you? Do we have an accord?"

"Rest of the trip," she added, even though she wasn't sure if she herself could avoid him for the rest of the time remaining. "However long that might be."

Jack paused for a moment, mulling the idea over in his head for a moment before responding. "Those estimations are quite hard to make with the lack of a heading. Nevertheless, you drive a hard bargain, but I accept. Let's have it, then," Jack finally said, with a tentative, tight-lipped smile. Isabella reluctantly held out her forearm for his inspection.

"Don't know what all the fuss is about; it's just a nick. Didn't think immortality made you into a bloody child."

"I'm not a bloody child!" she protested, but Jack waved her off; he'd have none of it.

He was on his feet within moments, rummaging through various arbitrary piles of objects and trinkets until finding the item he was looking for.

Uncorking the bottle with his teeth, Jack poured a slight measure of spirits onto a rather tattered piece of cloth before taking a swig of it himself. The sultry sweet, but sharp smell of brandy hung on his lips.

The cut had indeed reopened in her bath, appearing to be a rich bright red in the center, but the very edges were left with a multitude of dried crusts and debris in the process of healing over again. A quick pass of brandy would surely do the trick of cleaning her up for now.

"Seems to me that we're sailing on dangerous waters now, and it's not only about you anymore. Now me crew's involved s'well. You know who you're up against – keep a sharp eye, and your distance. No use losing you to a rabid tree branch or rigging spars."

"I need to get to my men, Jack," she said, indicating with her tone that she had no other desires than to do just that.

"Aye, and to your men you will go." He dismissed that with a quick flick of his wrist, indicating that he'd handle that much himself. "But I must advise you to do a wee bit of thinking about yourself, aye? Considering that you can hardly take care of a cut, and at the moment, I can't quite imagine you tending to a group of men in battle."

"I'll manage just fine, thank you," Isabella countered, pulling her arm away from his grasp.

He grabbed her arm just as fast as she pulled it away. "I'd rather doubt it," he said, smiling at her wide-eyed gaze of shock. "Reflexes, love. Always razor-sharp, as it were. Don't look so surprised."

She slightly moved her hand along the edges of the table, signaling to him that she was listening. The candlelight shone warm over the long delicate sensitive fingers - fingers that spoke of a refined mind and a long turbulent life. He placed her arm gently on his lap and returned to his work.

"Don't you understand? I don't have the time to think about myself now," she replied, watching him clean her wound with the piece of brandy doused fabric. She winced just a bit as the cloth slid over the opening.

"You'll be more inclined to find the time. Trust me." Isabella stared at him intently as the last two words rolled off his tongue rather hesitantly. "Or not…"

It was a rather simple decision – a bold gesture that comprised of the gentle tucking a loose strand of wet hair behind Isabella's ear, but it _could _have misinterpreted and _could_ have gotten him in more trouble than what he was already in. Bold decisions are made when one was not willing to lose a battle. Bold decisions can also be stupid - _very stupid_ - and could sometimes lose said "battle" if not executed properly. With that being said, Jack was not willing to lose the battle with her yet, she was valuable to him at that point, and if she didn't want to be touched, she would certainly let him know for future reference.

She drifted away from him as his fingers slid down passed her ear to the soft skin of her neck – a place where his lips often frequented at one point in time. Though, he had already been expecting that reaction. "Haven't you had enough of me yet?" she asked, exhaling a breath of frustration.

Jack's arm finally dropped to his lap and he thought for a moment, deciding to reply with another lighthearted smile. _Best not push me luck_. However, he believed he could manage another smile out of her yet. "That's beside the point…" he said jokingly.

However, he received no smile that time. So, he awaited the worst and got what he was asking for.

"Why do you care so much about what happens to me?"

_Bugger_.

Funny thing was that she didn't even look up from her reflection in the basin until she realized that a few moments of awkward silence passed with no answer. Then, her dark eyes locked onto his, and words began tumbling out of his mouth.

"It's only proper for a man to be concerned about a woman's well being…"

She narrowed her brow; her lips rising to a half smirk as she spoke. "Why, how curtious of you, Jack. But since when have you been concerned with anyone else's well being?"

Self-preservation was indeed a formidable opponent.

_Oh, bloody Hell_.

"Always have, Bella. For someone who claims to know me so well, it's obviously the contrary. Allow me to offer you a lesson, love. You won't regret it."

"As you wish." She couldn't exactly stop him from babbling on about himself. That was an almost impossible feat in and of itself.

"You think of me now as a scoundrel, a rat bastard who'll do close to anything in arriving at what he wants, and doesn't care how low he has to go, how dirty his deeds may be, or who he has to kill to get it. Am I correct so far, Bella?"

"I believe you are,_ Captain_ Sparrow. Please, do continue."

Jack smiled before continuing. He always loved a woman that could stroke his ego.

"You think that I will go out of my way take advantage of anyone and anything in any way on any given day, no matter how loathsome it makes me? Though I've gotten nothing of what I want, except for you - back. So now, you think I'm playing the schemer, going hand-in-hand with the rat bastard scoundrel inside of me. A lot more subtle and observant I am, but that's to keep from explaining what's going on. People are easier to manipulate when they're unsure of what's going on, you see, that's a cold hard fact. I've played that part for too long, and I'm bloody tired of playing it around you."

She raised her head and stood, looking intently at the black bookshelf in the corner of the room that was illuminated with quivering candlelight. Her soul trembled with it.

"Does this mean that you're done playing the part with me?"

"Aye. Truth is; I've been playing the part of a fool, who doesn't always completely understand everything, if I, in fact, understood anything to begin with."

"So, in essence, you do care?" Her tone sounded more like a declaration than a question.

As if his explanation wasn't clear enough.

_Best to get this over with. _

He took another rather generous swig of brandy, allowing his eyes to follow the motion of her hips as she moved away from him. Though masked by her rather oversized garments, he could still remembered _exactly_ what that arse looked like, and how it curved perfectly into the palm of his hand. "More than I should."

"Maybe you should show me one of these days," she said, idly running her eyes over a number of faded titles, but not really reading them.

Clearly, she regarded the implications of her statement too lightly. With her back turned to her rescuer, she had not realized how furious Jack became in just mere seconds. Rising from his seat, Jack covered the ground between him and Isabella in a few steps and turned her, pinning her against the rough surface of the furniture. He'd had enough.

"I've braved the deepest circle of Hell to bring you back. How dare you pretend-"

"I do not pretend!" she shouted, attempting to break hold of his strong grasp.

"You look me now with eyes and lips that I once kissed and _pretend_ that I have the least regard for you."

"So show me," she said defiantly. "If you have any regard for me, you will!"

_Tempting, love. Very tempting. _

It was a tempting enough offer to make his breath slightly uneven.

Jack shook his head. "No, not now. Not when you want it. On the contrary, it'll be when I want it. That's the trick – to keep you guessing, just as you've done with me."

"I'm still dead, Jack. I may be alive now, but there's a mark on my head. In a few days I'm back to where I started."

"And if you come back alive?" he asked, pressing himself firmly upon her.

"Impossible," she breathed, feeling his face draw near.

Jack held a finger to her lips. "Not probable. Absurd. Illogical, even. That's what I said when I was in the locker, darling. Yet, here we are. You can't doubt everything, Bella." He dropped his voice to a whisper as he gently took up one of Isabella's hands and kissed it softly. "If you think about it long enough, we hold hidden pieces of a rather large puzzle – a conundrum, if you will. One piece fits into the next, giving birth to new certainties, and perhaps one could never find where another fits without first experiencing its absurdity."

"That may be all lovely and true, but this is not a question of whether you do or don't care for me – it's that you cannot and should not care for me. Fact verses Fiction. One day you won't be there to protect me, and what will you do then?" Isabella demanded, with eyes lined with tears.

Jack bit his lip, unsure of how to answer. True enough; he would never be by her side forever. Forever's far out of his reach and much too permanent, much too dreary as well, especially if it were forever on land. Only the stars above would know how long he'd remain with her after journey's end; it was certainly not in his nature to remain on shore. For when the sea called; he'd sail out and greet her in response. He could not deny his first love of that.

At least, she was quite capable of taking care of herself and in a way that allowed him some comfort – to a certain extent.

And even if he were to decide to stay with Isabella, she knew him well enough to just let him go when the sea beckoned. She was a good woman, any man would be right lucky to have someone of her caliber waiting ashore upon their arrival.

For a fleeting moment; he imagined her there, at some distant dock, sitting in the darkness to watch the night sky gracefully turn into morning. He imagined her looking down at the beach, listening to the ocean stirring as the rollers shushed in on the sand.

He imagined her waiting wide-eyed for dawn, so that she could wave him into port.

As he submersed himself in his thoughts, he had not realized that he was slowly pressing Isabella into the shelf with a greater degree of force. She whimpered as his grasp tightened and the sound of her soft moan allowed him to shake away his daydream and relinquished his grasp.

"Apologies, m'lady," he said with a chuckle, pulling her away from the shelves and onto his chest.

"You know, a wise man once told me that pirates don't apologize."

His mouth hovered just slightly from hers and whispered, "A wise man, indeed."

The fact that Barbossa _was_ that wise pirate didn't seem like a good tidbit to share at that moment, but the idea still made her smile. Jack finally agreeing with something Barbossa said?

Improbable. Absurd. Illogical, even.

Almost as illogical as the position they both found themselves in.

A series of rapid, successive strokes on the ship's bell signaled a frantic warning. Usually it indicated fog up ahead and at other times, a fire, but in their case it was probably an indication of something far more sinister.

Startled, Jack hardened his composure. "No rest for the wicked, aye?"

"None at all. Night is the best time to strike."

Jack moved quickly, dragging Isabella along as he ran to the large French doors of the great cabin. Before making their entrance on deck, Jack took his pistol from his waist and handed it to her. "Here. Do not lose this."

Isabella shook her hand and unsheathed Jack's cutlass. "I'm better off with this."

"Right." There was no time to argue. "Especially don't lose _that_!"

---

At the moment when the warning bells sounded, Barbossa was at the forecastle, talking to Jordan and Colin as Pintel leaned up against the rail looking east. Suddenly, away in the aft, they heard shouting and then there came a loud thud on the quarterdeck.

"What the devil's up now?" Gibbs asked, wide-eyed with confusion.

Pintel scowled. "I'd wager that he's just seein' more of those damn ghosts again."

"Aloft!" Ragetti cried. "Fer Christ's sake, help me!"

Straightaway, they made a run for it, unsheathing their swords. It was still dark, but that did not hide them from a terrible and extraordinary sight. All along the port side of the quarterdeck rail, there was a gray mist that moved down inward and spread over the decks.

Ragetti stood up and tried to explain, but was so shaken that he could only stammer.

"I—I—there—" he stuttered.

As they looked more closely, they found that all the moving grayness evolved into a battalion of strange men. In the lamplight they looked unreal and almost impossible as if they were coming to them from an entirely different world.

"Dear God," Gibbs muttered.

Ragetti folded his arms quite confidently for someone who had just seen a murderous brigade of ghosts. "And you lot thought _I_ was goin' mad!"

Moments later, Jack and Isabella make a hasty appearance upon the quarterdeck, and were met by two indistinguishable masses that writhed along the planks. Once they were occupied, the ghostly mists descended upon the rest of the crew, each man covered by an indistinguishable mass cloud.

And so the battle began.

Swearing, along with shrieks and the sounds of blades ensued, and made the fight sound more murderous and bloodthirsty than ever.

Barbossa, Jordan and Colin made swift work of the mists that came after them, but couldn't seem to shake the ones that followed. Once one fell, another drew forward, using their teeth to bite through clothes and expose bloody flesh. It was a cannibalistic sight, but it seemed as though the ghosts had no other weapons to handle the task of murdering the lot of them.

Colin was being approached on all sides. At first, he had fair quite well on his own, striking down one beast after the next. However, it was as if the creatures could smell when fatigue began to settle in. With a final swoop, the ghost dug its teeth into his skin, and he yelled out from the sickening pain. To Colin, the terrible battle seemed won, when Barbossa came to his aid, piercing the mist's makeshift head, before dragging Colin to safety. The monstrous ghost raged furiously, until falling over the rail to meet the sea.

Colin quickly noted to thank the courageous captain once they were in the clear, though Barbossa seemed to have been enjoying himself far more than one would in such a battle. Barbossa had spent most of the battle laughing his way from ghost to ghost, shouting obscenities as he pierced through their cloudy forms with skill and precision. It was evident that one could learn much from a confident swordsman such as himself.

Barbossa sliced his way through the ghosts until reaching the forecastle, where he found Jack and Isabella, trading off a lone cutlass and pistol to fight off the cannibalistic spirits. He assumed a bit of assistance would be more than appropriate, considering the lack of weapons on their behalf. In addition, he had no intentions of going back to the afterlife to save _both_ of their arses _again_.

There was movement down in the water and among the rigging. The crew stood sharp and alert as they fought their way through, actually seeing at times, things moving and glinting faintly to and fro in the gear. And once, they were certain that they had even seen something behind the wheel. There were more noises on the main mast, along with things swarming all around them.

They were being surrounded.

All at once, it seemed to Ragetti that it was a bit darker than it has been the previous moment, and he raised his head, very cautiously from behind the barrel he had hidden behind along with Pintel.

"You suppose we're goin' ta get out o' this alive?" Pintel asked hesitantly.

"I suppose." Ragetti gulped.

"People talk about remarkable things happenin' at sea, but this isn't one o' them. This is one o' the _real_ things."

Ragetti look at him, blinking rapidly. "You've seen the queer things, perhaps mo' than I 'ave, I reckon."

"Aye, but these things don't go down in the log. These kinds o' things never do. This one won't. Not as it really happened at least..."

Unconsciously, Ragetti must have leaned further and further out over the side of the barrel, and suddenly he yelped, staring wide-eyed at the scene before him. He saw that the _Pearl_ had become enveloped in a great mist, and then not six feet from him, he made out someone, Murtogg, a fellow crew member.

"Be quiet! Be quiet!" Ragetti whispered, placing a finger over his lips. "They'll hear us!"

At Ragetti's command, he struggled to become silent, and then overhead, he saw the yards being swiftly mast-headed. He realized that ghostly things were at work there as well.

For a moment or so there was silence, only the occasional cry from Jack, Barbossa, Isabella and the crew who were defending their lives against the mist. The rest of the world grew quiet. Because of the mist, he could see nothing. Then from behind him came a single wail of sudden pain and terror from Murtogg.

The mist was upon him, choking the life from his mortal bones.

What was he to do? He was so compelled to run – compelled to give in to his self-preservation.

He looked at Pintel and knew what needed to be done.

Pintel unsheathed his cutlass and he and Ragetti, with lantern in hand, both attacked the ghostly mass to save Murtogg from his undeserved fate. As Pintel skillfully pierced the ghostly mist with his cutlass, Ragetti promptly smashed the lantern atop its shadowy head, setting the being ablaze and toppling over the rail, back to whence it came from.

They both laughed and cheered at their victory. "Bring it on, ya ghostly cads! I'll gouge yer wicked eyes out!" Ragetti yelled.

Pintel joined in on the celebratory taunting. "Aye! And pluck yer tongue out!"

"We'll cut yer Jacobs off!" Murtogg exclaimed, seeming to have regained a bit of confidence.

Pintel and Ragetti both shot weary looks at one another before answering. "Right, then!"

Not too far from where they stood, Isabella, Jack and Barbossa fought the ghost soldiers with the strength of their blades alone.

Barbossa had done away with a good lot of the creatures while aiding Jack and Isabella, feeling bursts of victory as the cold steel of his cutlass pierced the misty beasts. Though his victories were short-lived as another ghost was set upon him soon after, as if the ghosts were being beckoned to do so from the voice of an unseen master.

Jordan advanced from one ghost soldier to the next, fixing his eyes upon the long line that awaited him like a hungry pack of wolves, but he was clearly overpowered by the sheer number of them. They brought him to the ground, and Jordan raised himself on his arm, attempting to leap to his feet and assault those who were harassing him, but his strength failed him, his countenance became white and he fell to the floor again, where they swarmed upon him once more.

A dense mist passed within soul; his limbs felt numb where the beast was biting him, and the smell of his own blood made him sick to his stomach.

They were eating him alive.

_He was going to die_.

Suddenly, he felt quite warm – too warm – in fact. Almost as if he was on fire.

Then, he opened his eyes, and he realized that he _was _on fire!

Yelling at the top of his lungs, Jordan crawled backwards from the fiery mist that shrieked and moaned its way to the rail.

"Oi! Be quiet! Or they'll find us!"

Startled, Jordan looked up to find Ragetti standing before him, holding a broken lantern in his hands.

"You—you—saved me!" Jordan stuttered as Ragetti lent him a hand in getting up.

"All in an honest day's work, mate," Ragetti said quickly, handing Jordan a lantern that hung from the mast of the main deck. "Don't think they like fire very much, aye?"

Jordan smiled. "Who would?"

As Jordan looked from one to the other as Pintel, Ragetti and Murtogg surrounded him, his breath became frantic, and he burst out, "Isabella, where is she?"

And then, there was a scream. _Her_ scream.

Silence came over everything - silence so profound that it startled them.

All was dark and silent; the black shadows of the mist thrown by the moonlight seemed full of unspoken mystery. Not a thing seemed to be stirring, but all seemed far too grim.

The mist seemed to be returning from whence it came. Crawling back down beyond the _Black Pearl's_ rail and traveling just inches above the ocean to a distant place.

Once the darkness had lifted, it took a bit of effort to recognize where they were, and to realize what had happened.

Apparently, Isabella had been fighting back-to-back with Jack when she was sideswiped by another ghost. With its teeth, it determined whether or not Bella could withstand another gash on her arm.

After a few moments of regaining her breath, Isabella finally explained, "They just wanted to know if I would heal - if I was _mortal_."

---

The crew began picking up the pieces, assessing the damage done to the ship, who was the biggest casualty of the battle. To their dismay, some of the crew had been taken by the ghost soldiers, but if it weren't for Ragetti, there would have been far more fatalities than that. Even Murtogg found himself reunited with Mullroy, who stowed himself inside a large barrel as the ordeal unfolded.

They tended to the wounded or what was left of them.

Jordan had ventured farther aft from the rest of the crew. Leaning against the rail, he appeared to be recollecting his mind more than just a few wounded thoughts. He had shared every danger with Isabella for seven years of his life, and had met the possibility of death for the first time just a few moments ago. He hoped that Isabella would take pity on him.

Conversely, his solidarity didn't come as much of a surprise to Isabella, who knew his habits better than most. He was still such a young man, and yet he had experienced just as much pain and turmoil in his life as she had in hers. He probably _preferred_ isolation at that point.

_What a sad life they shared together_.

As she emptied out the bottle of brandy upon her gash over the rail, she contemplated what she could do for him. Would she take him in her arms and tell him to not let his mind linger upon thoughts of death?

Death was inevitable; it was only a matter of timing that made it differ for everyone. If she wasn't so blunt, that idea might have worked.

She was aware of how Jordan's dark clothed, slender body looked so lifeless as he leaned over the rail. But she thought it would be better if she didn't put her arms around him, even though she wanted to. His pain called to all her instincts, but she just couldn't comfort him physically. In her years of experience with men, it was best to not do so.

Apart from that, she was afraid he would not let her. She was afraid it would have been too much. It stood there – his body – abandoned. Her hands fluttered, and she half lifted her head to stare in his direction. In all her years with him, she had never seen him in such a state. Her heart was caught with pity, and all she wanted to do was take his hands, and draw him close to her to comfort him.

She'd give anything to preserve whatever amount of innocence he had left crawling for safety in his weary mind, but that was not her destiny – _their_ destiny.

With his head hung between his hands, Jordan did not detect Isabella's advance until she set a hand down on his shoulder and gently removed his hands from covering his face.

She swept his a patch of his long dark hair aside in an almost maternal manner. "Don't lose yourself. Not now."

She continued to glide her fingers through his hair. She wanted to heal the anguished his soul felt, and his new fear for self sacrifice, but did she know that he was dwelling on the hate and misery of his failure to her.

Jordan looked away, far out into the sea. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine, but Jordan, you aren't. You're hurt. You should really let us have a look at you. Please, just look at me for a second," she insisted, truly feeling the urge to offer him some sort of comfort.

At first, he just raised his head, not allowing his eyes to look up at her until he mustered enough energy tear himself away from the reoccurring visions of the mist, eating away at his flesh.

Isabella tenderly cupped her hands around his face, turning him toward her and he gave in, and he realized how close she really was.

He couldn't breathe.

He had felt that way before around her, so stupidly shy to the point where his body couldn't understand the difference between an inhale and an exhale. She was so close to him then, close enough to make him look into those deep penetrating eyes of hers, with which she has so often looked at him. They always had the same effect, though perhaps he was never conscious enough to notice them before because he had been so driven to please her, and serve her. It was his duty above all else.

Then, he recalled all the times he had made her laugh, and the way she looked at him with joyful, squinting eyes that were full of tears for an entirely different reason. She was so happy at those times, so _beautiful_ that he believed sadness never suited her, and that she should always smile in such a way.

At that moment, Jordan felt himself so full of nervousness that he couldn't register the satisfaction he usually felt with seeing her overcome a battle, and come out alive. What he wanted then, at that instant, was to throw his arms around her and just laugh at the fact that she wasn't well armed for the battle – something that she always said was a mistake.

He wanted to crush the feelings he just felt, and return to some sort of normality. Lieutenant Jordan and General Selene - normal.

She licked her lips hesitantly. "Have you ever prayed?"

Jordan leaned back, taking a rather long pain-laden breath before answering. "Prayed?" That required a proverbial leap of faith, did it? Wasting no time in returning to his prior position, he answered, "I suppose I have."

A hand slid over his warm flesh to the back of his neck and she drew him down, touching her forehead to with his, and closed her eyes. "So pray now, with me, one last time before we meet the devil herself," she said, letting a small laugh escape her lips.

_Faith._ That was the last thing she thought she had left. Though, she was not praying to anyone in particular, she hoped that the right person so happened to be listening.

_Save the crew. Save my men. Allow them to live long enough to see another sunrise. _

Simple wants, yet not so simple to achieve.

With her eyes closed in thoughtful meditation, Jordan gnashed his teeth at how soft her damp hair was as it fell against his arms. Even as he tried to move them away, strands of her hair continually brushed his flesh, making him burn.

What would it be like to kiss _her_?

Surely, he'd never thought of _that_ before. He had never had the inclination or the opportunity in the many years he had spent by her side. And yet, he felt the yearning for it now; the hunger to sample the moist, rosy lips of his commander.

Call it romance, if you like. What difference did it make whether you called it romance and it was romance or if you called it romance and it wasn't romance, or if you just didn't call it romance at all? It was just as desirable whether you called it one thing or another, or nothing, so long as it was delightful. Right?

That's what it was like with him and Arianna, after all. It didn't matter what they had labeled it, just as long as they both enjoyed… well, whatever it was that they had.

However, Isabella must have, by that time, made up her mind about loving Jack. It was pretty damn obvious, in his opinion. Wasn't he the one who asked if she had finally bedded the rogue just a few weeks prior? She might as well just tell him so at once. She wasn't likely to change her mind or heart about him in another fortnight. Why should she not put things right at once?

One difference between him and Jack also became quite clear; he would never betray her. Jack would leave one day - that was an inevitable truth that she'd have to wrap her head around when the time came. Another thing she'd have to wrap her head around was the fact that he'd most certainly bed others, fall in love again (if he was in love with her at all), and continue on, traveling to the ends of the earth without her just as he had done before.

Life would be back to blissful normality and she'd turn into a forgotten figment of his past - a hopeful (or hopeless, depending on how one would choose to look at it) soul waiting on shores for him to return, for the rest of her existence. She had already been through enough without him adding more shit onto the pile of worries on her shoulders.

He, instead, had a highly chivalric nature and would understand her needs. He'd never left her side, and to be quite honest, he never had any intention of doing so. That decision was made way before the little revelation he was having at that very moment.

Only one question remained. When she would finally look at him, what would he do?

_Kiss her! Kiss her! _

No! She wouldn't like that one bit. It would be so strange for her to allow him to kiss her without shrieking or trying to run away.

Damnit, it would seem so strange.

There were so many questions and no fucking answers in sight.

Huffing softly through his nostrils, he grimaced, knowing damn well that he should have been praying for his life and hers, but he could do nothing but stare at her and eagerly trace her lips with his eyes, only averting them whenever he felt her move ever so slightly. Suddenly, he felt the desire to run his hand through those damp strands that hung limply from her head and comb them with his fingers. Her skin was still pale and lined with a thin film of sweat from the ghostly confrontation, but she was no less lovely. No less inviting.

Before he could stop himself, he laid his bare hand against her chilled cheek and let the softness of her skin pierce him.

God, it felt so good just to touch her. Now, he knew why Jack's eyes could not help but follow her everywhere she went, he probably couldn't get enough of it himself.

She didn't pull away from his touch; instead she sat there, her lips moving in silent prayer, allowing him to linger in that position with her until she was finished.

With her eyes still firmly shut, she slowly leaned away, letting her hand drop from the back of his neck as she rose to her feet. If Isabella had just opened her eyes and gazed up at him for a fleeting moment, she would have finally heard the message that his intense eyes were singing out to her.

Her prayer was done and whatever it was that she was trying to do to bring him back to sanity; he had certainly interpreted it in an entirely different fashion and it without a doubt made him _less_ sane in the process.

He could finally breathe a bit easier as she disappeared from his sight below decks to tend to the others.

After a moment, he looked down at the hand that briefly (but boldly) rested on her cheek and recalled the exact thoughts he had at that most remarkable moment.

"_She's so cold…_

_She feels like ice…_

_God, if I could only warm her." _

---


	31. The White Army

**A/N:** Today marks the one year anniversary of this story! Along with my 22nd birthday ;)

Truth be told, I hadn't written a word before June 29th of last year. I was never really a writer until I joined this wonderful website. And I'm so fortunate to have met such wonderful people here.

Thank you Nytd, for all your help throughout this time! You've been a blessing!

I hope you all enjoy this chapter! This one is dedicated to you, my readers.

---

**Chapter 31 – The White Army**

---

A great cloud of a dark slate color was driving upon the _Black Pearl_ from the southwest, and the crew did their best to take in the sails before they were in the midst of it. Before the attack, several members of the crew had the light sails furled, the courses hauled up, and the topsail reef-tackles hauled out, and were just mounting the fore-rigging. In an instant, the sea – which had been comparatively quiet – was running higher and higher and it became almost as dark as night.

Colin and Jordan went aloft to see where the sheet had gone. From what they had gathered on their time on the vessel, it seemed as though the pin had gone out of the shackle, and the shackle itself was jammed into the sheavehole in the yardarm.

Jordan went down for another pin while Colin began to bend the clewline back into position, overhauling it down to the sheet. If the Jordan of a month ago had taken a moment to consider what he was doing at the present, he would have been blubbering in disbelief.

"Clewline? What the hell's a clewline?" Would have been his first question, and he probably would have received an answer in sailor gibberish, which would have further muddled his understanding.

But there he was, fresh pin in hand, screwing it into the shackle, clipping on the crewline, and singing out to the crew to take a pull on the rope. In a month's time, he had learned how to manage himself around the vessel the hard way, keeping in mind that everyone's arse was on the line, as far as the crew was concerned.

At the second heave the shackle came away and when it was high enough, Jordan went to the top gallant yard, and held the chain while Colin shackled it into the spectacle. The sheet was harder than they had ever felt it, seeming to almost pin them down to the rigging. They were taking in the sail longer than ever before, for the sails were stiff, the ropes and rigging were petrified, and they, themselves, were cold and blinded by the storm that awaited them just ahead.

They shouted to Gibbs that they were finally ready to hoist away.

"You'd better go down and give them a hand," Colin said. "I'll stay up to see if this pulls through."

"Right." Jordan nodded, smiling as he placed a strong hand on Colin's shoulder. "Don't let the ghosts do away with you. Keep a watchful eye."

The cautious remark he made was meant to be lighthearted and in jest, but Jordan was oddly exhilarated for the time being. The rush of adrenaline that coursed through Jordan's body caused him to become quite free from the sense of fear that had been with him for most of the night. He supposed it was due to the freshness of the wind.

Jordan's mind began to wander as he began his descent. Colin was an honorable man. An honorable man who, under the influence of war, had done many vile, despicable things, but he was an honorable man nonetheless. If you asked him, he wouldn't know how to explain it. It's a warrior's code, originating from the yearning to be honorable.

Though Jordan had never been a martyr of honor, or a kind of Diogenes going about with a lantern and looking for honor in the dark, he always ended up doing something terrible and unspeakable, until Isabella had come into his life.

Jordan stiffened. "He's not right for her."

"What?" Colin crinkled his nose. "Who?"

"_Him_." Jordan whispered, jerking his head in the direction of the quarterdeck.

Colin followed his line of sight. "You mean Jack?"

Jordan nodded. "Well, you know better than I do that she needs someone more poised, heroic, and dutiful. Plus, he should smell better … kind of. Someone like … me."

"You?" Colin studied him for a moment. "Have you lost your fucking mind?"

Okay, Jordan had expected that much. Colin wasn't the type of man that thought in romantic daydreams, though he was still capable of caring deeply. All things considered, any kind of sensitive emotions to Colin were even more painful because he didn't allow himself the freedom to vent.

Colin tended to suffer in silence, alone, more likely to do something physical instead of talking it out reasonably. One thing was for certain, Colin suffered the most for Grace, the wife he left behind to chase after Death itself. The last thing Colin wanted was to not return home, and leave his wife a lonely widow; Jordan could see that much in his eyes.

"Colin, you know that isn't very fair at all," Jordan replied sarcastically. Arrogant he was, with a definite streak of ruthlessness behind his young façade.

"You've finally arrived at your wits end, I'll tell you that much. And yeah, I think that's pretty fucking fair considering the situation." Colin raked his fingers through his blond mane as he returned to work. "I have no intentions on continuing this conversation."

"You know you feel the same way too. She's constantly in danger when she's with him."

"Would you like me to further elaborate on your condition? You're cracked, crazed, cuckoo, daft, delirious, demented, deranged, and dippy. Have you even considered the consequences that might ensue if Jack were to find all this out? He'll run you through before you realize what's what. Then, Isabella will probably laugh at how stupid you really_ were_."

"I'm not sure if that's a remark against my intelligence or my ability to fight off some bumbling, drunken pirate…"

"Both. You're too young and to top it off you are pretty damn thick. That so-called '_bumbling, drunken pirate_' currently has three additional decades of fighting and fucking under his belt… or belts, rather. It's a lose-lose situation from all sides, my friend. Heed my words. Drop it, now."

"Colin, if you just hear me out for one second…"

"No, _you_ hear _me_ out. You need to focus. If I learned anything, it's that a woman should not be on your mind when you're trying to protect these." Colin cupped his crotch in illustration. "Understood?"

Jordan licked his lips triumphantly. "Well, what about Grace?"

"What about her?"

"Well, she's your wife."

"Will you be arriving at a point anytime soon? Or do you enjoy dancing in circles?"

"Don't you have her on your mind?"

"Yes, of course. Grace is always on my mind! That's the point! And mind you, Grace isn't exactly the woman that will be leading us in battle against a power we don't understand and can't control. Listen, you can't love Isabella, but you can care for her, because she's willing to give her life for all of us. So, if you do choose to care for her, do the right thing, and stay away from her."

"But-"

"Oi! Are you both going to keep us waiting all day?" Gibbs shouted up. "One of you lads come down and give us a pull with the ha'lyards. The other stays up and lights the gear!"

"Aye!" Colin shouted, looking over to Jordan. "This conversation is over. So, go on! What are you waiting for?"

"I'm not even close to finished yet!"

"Bloody hell, Jordan," he mumbled under his breath, rubbing the space between his eyes.

"How can I not think of her?" Jordan said, becoming frustrated with himself. "I can't stop thinking of her! Do you think she knows that I care for her?"

Colin sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose with his fingers.

"Come on now, one of ya! Make a move! Stars above. What on God's green earth are you two jabbering about?" Gibbs hollered, cupping his calloused hands around his mouth.

"Well, what do I do?" Jordan pleaded, grabbing the sleeve of Colin's shirt.

"Just… don't tell her now! It's not a good time. Just do it after - after all this is done and over with, by all means tell her. Flowers, stupid song, letter, whatever tickles your fancy. Now, will you get down there, please?"

A radiant smile appeared on Jordan's face. "That's the most brilliant thing you've said all day. Alright, Colin, I will do as you command."

Colin let out a pain-laden sigh as Jordan disappeared to join the crew on deck. "Thanks."

---

Isabella felt perfectly useless, for she had not eaten for the last couple of days, and was as weak as an infant. To be sick on the forecastle was miserable indeed, not to mention the accompaniment of bad weather on the horizon. The forecastle was shut tight to keep out the water; the watch was either on deck or asleep in their berths, leaving no one to speak to. All that was left was the pale light of a single lamp, swinging to and fro from the beam, so dim that one could scarcely see, much less read by it. Regardless of what was done to keep it fairly dry, it was still so wet and dark, bordering on cheerlessness, and lumbered up with chests and wet clothes.

Fortunately, her stubbornness convinced her that she needed no help from any one, and could care less if she had any food. Even if she had needed help, she didn't know where she could have found it. The crew was willing enough, but they were under-manned, and if someone was stricken with sickness, they couldn't spare another to take care of them. All conclusions pointed to one solution, the sooner she got on deck again, the better.

Though, a small part of Isabella's mind was aware that nothing made sense to her anymore, least of all the war of emotions going on inside her. The habits of survival once learned were not easily forgotten, nor that the idea that death was around the corner, or the risk of betrayal. She didn't think that she would ever be quite the same. All the while she had thought there was no chance at all of reconciliation. She though Barbossa hated her. After all, hatred fuels betrayal, and Barbossa had surely accepted his part.

Someone of her own side, whose betrayal led to her death; it was an act that could not be so easily forgiven. Even if he did wanted forgiveness, she was so blinded by revenge that forgiving him for such a matter was not foremost on her list of things to worry about. Though, the memories were solid; the wounds ran deep, and were not easily forgotten. She still remembered the betrayal, the anger, and questions that arose within her.

_Why?_

A light breeze had been blowing directly from aft during the first part of the day, which gradually died away, and before midnight it was dead calm, leaving a heavy black cloud shrouding the sky.

Not a breath was stirring, the sails hung heavy and motionless from the yards. It was a perfect stillness, and the darkness was almost palpable.

Everyone just stood, waiting for something to happen.

She let her hand move up alongside the slick edges of the rail as it wished. It was not long before she felt a presence behind her, moving toward her slowly, and with great apprehension. The funny thing about her connection with Hector Barbossa, was the fact that it seemed as though he could anticipate her every move, even her thoughts at times; it was a skill that marked a great swordsman, passed along to other aspects of his character. With that in mind, she decided it was better to address the matter at hand before it went unresolved.

"A fine tempest is a-brewin'. In honor of your revival, it seems. Very fitting for a lady such as yerself."

He was right, but a storm was brewing inside her as well, one that wouldn't be calmed this time.

Much to her surprise, Isabella turned to find that Barbossa had brought her a plate of food that evening, containing several pieces of bread, cheese, and an apple hidden in his pocket for good measure. She snatched the plate from his hands. "I'm not starving," she said in response to his wide-eyed expression. "But I've found my weapon."

"Yer goin' to throw food at me? That would be most ill advised, and not in the least bit effective."

She almost did for that observation. Barbossa had a very keen sense of humor that often left her with a half smile and her guard down. "I'm tempted, no doubt about it." She laughed softly, but covered her mouth with her arm to conceal it. "But since this might be my last meal, I'll pass this time."

"A wise choice. No tellin' what ye'd do to me with that bread. Hard as the crew when they see ya bend over."

Another chuckle left her lips, and then silence ensued. The moments passed without a word on either one of their parts.

"I've started this all wrong," Isabella finally said, breaking the god-awful silence. "I'm beleaguered and frustrated. These last few days have been horrible… just horrible. I've had to behave with perfect courtesy even when I wanted to shout, and smilingly accepted enough flowery compliments to gag a goat. I wish to flee, and I have no one I can speak to about it," she suddenly choked, noticing that Barbossa had turned to face her, and offered his hand.

Isabella humbly accepted it, gripping the offered hand, and then she pulled him close enough so that she could set a hand on his shoulder.

"You know, I've been waitin' fer ye to come apologize to me," Barbossa observed.

Isabella immediately opened her mouth, and closed it again when Barbossa waved her to silence.

"But, in discussin' it with meself, I've found that I've already forgiven you."

"Beg pardon?" she said, coughing as a piece of bread seemed to have logged itself in her throat.

"I decided that you meant nothing by it," Barbossa reiterated, slowly clasping his hands. "Hence, there's no need fer an apology. Feel better?"

Out of breath, she managed, "Is it possible to choke on food deliberately?"

He narrowed his brow at her, appearing slightly confused.

She waved her hand. "Forget I said anything. So what is it that I'm apologizing for again? I didn't quite understand that part."

Barbossa chuckled, slapping the rail lightly with his palm. "Ye know what ya did, lass. Ain't no use in hidin' it. All things come back to the surface."

"Hold on," she retorted, sounding rather irritated. "Last time I checked –"

"Last time I checked, my crew adored ye. And I don't know how you managed it, lass."

_Adored her? Why?_ She had constantly put them in harm's way, dragged them through treacherous storms and thick forests, down to Hades itself. Why in the world would they adore such torment?

"So, I hope you'll not be a-thinkin' about leavin' without them. They won't allow it. 'Tis out of the question."

The thought of putting the crew in danger quickly sobered her after the initial shock of such a statement from Hector Barbossa – the most fearsome pirate of the Caribbean. "Oh no, I don't think so." She shook her head, feeling her heart race at such a thought.

"Ye sang the seas calm, and ye drove the heavens to war, doin' whatever it takes ta bring back yer honor. They know that," Barbossa reasoned, pulling the apple from his pocket. "Ne'er had they gazed upon someone like ye, who fought fer somethin' that seemed so unattainable. That's why they adore ye and yer men."

"Hmph, so you think," she replied skeptically. "I trained my men to obey commands, what kind of love is that?"

"Ye haven't left them to go their own way while you went yours, as lots of men in yer position would have done. The consequence is they adore you. And they always will. But like all good leaders know, you can't expect ta be first wit' them when their own time comes." Barbossa shinned the apple on his coat and handed it to her. "Apple?"

"I'm going to war, Hector, and all you can think about is apples."

"'Tis better than what's going on in here at the moment," he said as he placed a rather gentle hand on her head. They smiled at one another before Barbossa turned to walk away, feeling the great tension between them beginning to dissipate, and what a feeling of relief that was. Though it was not total forgiveness, it was a start of something more trustworthy than what they had before.

---

"Sail, ho!"

A great upheaval began. Several days had passed without any sightings of vessels in the area as they sailed west into the heart of the Caribbean Sea in hot pursuit of the _Hellride_. So at the sound of Marty's voice that morning, Isabella sprung from her resting place upon the top step of the quarterdeck's companionway.

For a moment, she watched the distant object over Jack's shoulder as it bobbed in and out of sight on the gently heaving back of the horizon. A fisherman, perhaps? Or perhaps something more? She knew she should look away, but she couldn't, and Jack quickly turned to follow her line of sight.

"You don't recognize her, Bella?" Jack narrowed his brow at the ship, and then turned his attention to her, looking her over with concern. "Never thought I'd see the day where a captain doesn't recognize her own ship."

A small shiver ran up Isabella's back, traveling down her arms to blossom in her fingertips. She sent Jack an anxious glance. There was a strong worried line etched faintly between his brows; Isabella saw it, and Jack saw all of her worries as well. Although she was not the kind of woman that would boast her abilities, Jack knew that she had sharp eyes that could rival his own. He'd imagine she didn't want to recognize her very own ship for a reason that seemed to radiate tension from deep within her soul. Then she immediately grew distant, leaving him without a word to sprint to the _Black Pearl's _forecastle deck to lay her eyes upon the great white sails in the distance.

_Was it them? Had they finally caught up to her men? _Isabella's heart raced at the thought of seeing her men, whom she missed terribly, and it foolishly prompted her to climb the rail and venture out onto the _Pearl's_ bowspirit – a part of the ship that she had not yet visited with her shaky balance. Her image reflected in the turbulent sea beneath her. The ship in the distance was so brightly illuminated that all of her men and even the smallest rope could be distinctly and plainly seen.

She couldn't contain herself any longer, expelling every last ounce of her longing in her voice as she bellowed, "James Moore!"

The world around her slowly fell into darkness, but Isabella could not take her eyes off the ship or from the vague forms of her men in the distance. The colored lanterns had been extinguished, and the sea became restless, moaning and grumbling sounds could be heard from deep beneath the waves.

After a while, she saw that the sails were quickly furled, stopping the ship from continuing in its passage. _Had they spotted the Pearl on their aft?_

The waves rose higher, heavy clouds darkened the sky, and lightning appeared in the distance.

"James Moore!" she yelled again, maintaining her balance with the meager help of a rope-line.

A fair wind was carrying them swiftly toward the _Hellride_, a ship that went bounding on her way, like a steed who understands her rider. Suddenly, the command was heard from the quarterdeck to haul in the studding sails.

The crew obeyed, without exhibiting marks of dissatisfaction. As soon as this duty had been performed word was passed to man the topgallant clewline. The topgallant sails were clewed down and several light hands went aloft to furl them.

The crew now evinced their surprise by audible remonstrance when Gibbs said, "Look ahead, men! See that cloud?" It was evident that the wind threatened to blow with no small fury directly from sea. Indeed, before the topgallant sails were furled the wind was seen skipping over the water and whitening its surface as far as they could reach.

Without warning, Jordan's strong arms grabbed Isabella from behind, his hair was sleekly wet and dripping water down onto her arms. His expression might as well have been carved from stone, and his black eyes chased the length of the distant ship, and skimmed over Isabella, giving her a look that told her that she should have known better than to put herself in such danger, especially with the weather looking as though it would be turning for the worst.

With Barbossa and Jack at the helm, and the braces manned, by the time the wind struck sails they were measurably prepared for its reception.

"Jordan!" Gibbs yelled. "Haul down the jib! All hands!"

With that, her young, but determined lieutenant went about his work. Even after all he had been through, he seemed to have bounced back with a renewed vigor; it was a thought that made her smile.

In a few minutes, low, grumbling thunder was heard, and some random flashes of lightning came from the southwest. Every sail was taken in but the topsails, but still, the rain didn't come.

As the _Black Pearl_ drew closer to the _Hellride_, Isabella could hear Jack walking the deck with heavy footsteps, giving orders to and fro in a low tone, before he joined her on the forecastle.

"We're preparing to board," he reported rather distantly, leaning back with his posture as he cupped his hands at the small of his back. "All hands, love. That means you too."

He lingered for a few moments, biting his lip as though he were about to say something rather important, but fighting it back. She watched him grow more uncomfortable by the second. There was still tension, and rightly so. He had betrayed her, but she – she had killed herself, and if she hadn't, then she would have never been free from the hold that Ares had upon her. In the end, Jack provided that avenue and his guilt opened a clear passageway into his heart, leading to what he wanted most.

_Her_.

Before Jack could turn to leave, Isabella caught him by the arm. "Jack," she whispered softly, feeling a whirl of emotions in her stomach. "If you hadn't broken the bond Ares held on me, we would both be dead. I was useless. I was so caught up in this search to discover the truth about myself that I endangered everyone around me." Her mouth tightened. "I just wanted to thank you for what you've done – what the crew has done. If we get out of this, I'm finished with this business. Let someone else go on. I'm done."

Jack looked off into the darkness of the approaching storm. "'Tis something most of us want. To backtrack and start anew, but you can't do that, Bella," he told her finally. And it was true, for how he longed to take back his betrayal, but that was water beneath the bridge – he hoped. "No, don't say anything, just listen to me. You can't because you're a far better person than you believe yourself to be. You have to go on, help those who can't help themselves, so to speak. It wasn't a responsibility you went looking for, I realize. Someone saw fit to see to it that it became your burden to bear and I'm fairly certain that it's because you have the strength to shoulder it."

"I don't care," she muttered dully, longing for tranquility in her heart. "I don't."

"Yes, you do, love," he insisted. "Ad augusta per angusta. _To high places by narrow roads._ Besides, if you didn't, you wouldn't be here, and this all would have ended long ago. You wouldn't have been better for it."

They stood there, looking at each other in the ensuing silence, like statues left standing amidst the ruins of a long forgotten city.

"As long as I breathe, I will always keep hope."

"Precisely. Espirt de corps, darling. You've taught them all that much, I reckon." Jack leaned an arm against the rail beside her, taking a strand of her hair within his fingers. "You and I are not too different, you know. Though we may be shaken by waves, we will not sink. To you justice is first and foremost and more precious than all the gold in the world…"

"And to you?" she asked abruptly, turning to face him.

"It varies from sea to sea." He smirked ever so slightly, though the gleam from his golden teeth still shone as bright as day. "S'always been me nature."

She looked out at the _Hellride_, which was no longer dreamy speck in the distance, but now a beautifully crafted reality before her eyes. "You're right," she said, her voice had become so soft that he could barely hear her. "I do care."

She moved against him, lifting her face to his, and kissed him longingly. His arms slipped around her waist as he held her to his body, feeling something warm growing deep within him.

It was always in her training to please whoever she was with, and to take nothing for herself, because her needs never mattered. But with Jack, she didn't feel that way. There was a balance between them, whether they chose to admit it or not.

Isabella sighed as Jack pulled her closer, content in the manner in which he held her, and the way his muscles rippled around her body - so handsome, so strong, and so seductive. All she wanted was to be alone with him like that, and to feel his heart beating against her breasts for one final evening.

His head swam as everything around him became sharp and clear. He felt her breath on his skin and every part of him felt alive. She was so strong, yet so weak. All things considered, he reckoned that she still needed him now more than ever. He could feel that much without speaking a bloody word.

She went to move away from him after what seemed to be a long time, but allowed herself to linger for a moment, losing herself within the warmth and comfort she felt when her body was pressed closely to his. She sighed with her head lowered, listening to his heart beating.

Even in her anger, in her moment of death she had forgiven him, and had loved him. She hoped that had shown him that much in her kiss, and hoped that he would not miss her too terribly when they parted ways.

"For as long as I can remember; I was always in search of _something_. Now I just want to stop and look around. I want to have a home somewhere. A real home. Do you think that's foolish?" she asked with hesitation in her voice, keeping a steady gaze on Jack's chest. Her mind was thoroughly lost in thought.

He smiled at her words, sensing that her voice was growing more and more distant as the moments passed, but didn't answer. His home had always been his ship, the sea, and occasionally port, but always on the run. Stability was never an option, but he wanted to give it her, regardless of that fact that he could never grant such a wish.

"Jack, you have to go. You must go far away from this place, across the sea if you need to. Just leave." She pushed him away, knowing that if he were to go with her, the crew would come as well. She couldn't afford more innocent bystanders, nor would she be able to live with herself if any of them were to get in the line of fire.

But Jack did not waiver, narrowing his brow; his lip turned into a hard line. Obviously, it was a sign of silent protest.

"You weren't thinking of coming with us were you?" she asked, backing away to the forecastle companionway.

Jack shrugged, gesturing with his arms in defense. "Well, I –"

"No! You must go!" she yelled adamantly, gripping the _Pearl's_ rail as she ran down the stairs. "You're mad if you think that coming with me is an option!"

The crew had prepared the gangway to the _Hellride_ with great care by the time Isabella had made it down to the main deck with Jack hot on her heels. She was relieved to see the _Hellride_ bobbing tranquilly along their starboard side, but quickly grew tense as it seemed as though most of the crew was under the impression that they were going as well.

"What are you all doing?" she asked rather aggressively.

"We're wit' ya until th' end, Miss," Ragetti said, which triggered a roar of 'ayes' along the main deck.

Jordan and Colin flanked Isabella's sides holding onto her arm in an effort to comfort her as they parted. This wouldn't be easy for anyone, including the crew.

"Let us go," she protested. "It's best for you all to forget us. I've only brought you all pain." Isabella did not weep, but the sweet bloom of life died out of her face. She looked haggard and sad all at once.

Her hands dropped listlessly as she looked down the line of men before her, giving a small nod of appreciation to Barbossa and Ragetti who stood toward the end, returning the gesture. Jordan finally nudged her with urgency, but she looked away, past the two pirates and at Jack Sparrow. Her head dropped low, and her heart was weighed down. Then, she promised herself that she would never forget his face. It was a final acceptance of her hopeless fate.

With the help of Jordan and Colin, Isabella climbed up to the gangway. "You cannot come with us! I will not allow it. This is not your battle to fight. Go now, far away from this place. Save yourselves." At that moment, she found herself surrounded by the crew, and they were hesitant, shifting in their places with worried looks on their faces. Ragetti stood with his head down, looking highly disappointed at her decision. Pintel exchanged glances with him, shaking his head.

"Go!"

And then, she disappeared, and the gangway was loosened and thrown into the water before the crew of the _Black Pearl_ had any say in the matter.

---

The crew on the _Hellride_ did not show as much enthusiasm as the crew of the _Black Pearl_. In actuality, they were very hesitant about furling the sails when they caught her on their aft. They no longer had any use for the crew or the _Black Pearl _herself, but James anticipated that if they had chased them down that far into the Caribbean, it would be with good reason.

However, that didn't exactly stop him from voicing his thoughts on Jack once the gangway was set.

"What the hell does Jack Sparrow want now?" he moaned as he left the main cabin. "Hasn't he done enough to … Oh shit."

With little trembling from her slender body, she rocked to and fro on her knees. The yearning wistfulness of her eyes changed to solemn splendor of joy. She smiled, and realized the happiness that swelled her heart at the sight of her men surrounding her. Her eyes reflected the transformation of her soul. Dark, brooding, hopeless - clouds of gloom - drifted, paled, and vanished in glorious light. An exquisite rose flush - a glow - shone from her face as she slowly began to rise from her knees. A spirit - a phoenix - uplifted her.

James and the men watched her in joy too deep for words. That moment, when she seemed to be lifted by some spiritual transfiguration, was the most beautiful moment of his life. He half-turned away, feeling his eyes grow hot and wet, and found himself looking at Jordan and Colin. They smiled as well, and went on to rejoice with their fellow brethren with yells and bone shattering embraces. Everything blurred, the moments slowing down incredibly.

But James could not partake in such festivities just yet. Instead, he approached Isabella with great caution, inhaling deeply before he addressed her. "We thought you were dead... I-I thought he'd killed you."

At the moment of her death, her bright spirit had been smudged indeed, and it appeared dim in the distance. But her soul had not lost hold of the objects of its delight just yet. Her heart was formed for affection. All that she had given to her men inspired her to follow them over the distant seas.

She pushed his shoulder playfully. "You know that I'm too stubborn to stay down. Even when I know I've lost."

But she had not lost just yet. To deaden the feelings of hearts so young, yet so wise, and so unselfish was not in the power of anything but Death itself. Though, that notion didn't begin to explain the war that was going on within his mind.

Since the day of her death, he was moody – they all were moody, but he possessed the look of a man who had played his very last card in desperation. It was not first time he had known of that dull despair that came with death, but it had never pained him so. Though his mind told him that he could not despair for too long, for he was appointed with the responsibility of leading a battalion of men into war. It was then that courage finally befell him.

Weak at heart, James felt that he owed to Isabella to provide her soldiers with all possible duty and service to atone for the way Hera had taken her life so many years ago. But in reality, James longed to atone for the way in which Fate had treated her, and for all the joys that her young life had missed.

And he missed her terribly. Yet, there she was, standing before him once more, clearly made of flesh and bone, and taking the form of the woman he had always known and loved, and not that of a ghost. She had touched him with cool hands and bathed him in a warm smile, as if she had never died at all.

She was alive and so was he.

Unbeknownst to him, James' hand began to linger over his own heart, recalling the vision of Jack Sparrow's blade as it sliced through hers all too readily, as if he were experiencing that very same pain right there and then.

"The pieces grew back together." She smiled, hoping that her assumption of such a gesture was correct.

"Was it awful?"

"I don't remember," she lied. She chose not to remember, it ultimately made things a lot easier in her mind. How could she ever explain what she saw, and the torment that it brought along with such a tortured state? Her mind will never be normal again. "It's good to see you again, James."

He exhaled, letting out any awkwardness that he might have been experiencing. "You mean that?"

"Of course!" Isabella quickly looked him over, extending her arms toward him as she moved to embrace him. "Immortality suits you, James."

_Immortality?_

As he moved toward her, accepting her warm embrace without hesitation, he recalled that Ares had granted them all such a right. A smart move. In reality, Ares couldn't afford to lose the force that took Isabella four hundred years to create.

However, immortality was never an option to James, or to anyone else who saw what an immortal life had done to their general. They had declined the eternal waters and walked away from Ares' offer in the hopes that Isabella would have been proud of them either way.

The steamy, sweet-sweaty smell of salt seeped into every pore of her skin, clung to her clothes, hung on every strand of her hair. And to think, just a few days prior he thought it would be the last time he would see her alive! Alas yes, but Death was now swiftly approaching and about to fall upon that happy reunion. He could not trouble her with technicalities.

"So it seems…" he responded finally with a lie, moving her toward the festivities. He retreated from the guilt he felt in his mind for not telling her the truth, but he didn't have the heart to worry her at that instance.

The _Black Pearl_ had turned into a small speck in the horizon by the time that Isabella retired to her cabin for the night; she sat down by the casement of her cabin window, wishing that she could have seen the glorious moonlight reflecting upon the calm waters of the sea once more before the battle. Though, she continued to reflect on herself, taking her happiness in her hands, as it were, and examining it, and realizing if it were at all possible to be happy anymore. The _Pearl_ was gone, and so were Ragetti, Barbossa, and Jack.

_Jack… _

It had all been so sudden, so unexpected; her breast was still in such a state of ferment and excitement that she felt it would be long before she could sleep again. To be completely honest, she could hardly tell the difference between waking and sleeping any longer. It didn't take long for her to determine that she needed to reach a state of calm first before anything else. In the effort to achieve such a feat, she threw open the casement and let the fresh night air cool her throbbing brow.

As the evening wind caressed her body, she realized how wonderful and beautiful the world really was.

---

The very next morning the preparations began, Isabella and her men wasted no time in assembling their cloaks of white, assisting one another in painting their bodies in white, making sure to leave no part uncovered.

It was well known that only gods could slay other gods, but The White Army held a secret weapon – an overlooked detail that Hera herself did not recall.

Isabella's roman gladius - a blade that was powered by Hera's own will to kill her son; the blade that once pierced, and sliced away at Ares' godly skin during their battle thousands of years prior.

A blade that could kill a god. Only two of their kind and they possessed both on their side. If Ares were to fall, than Isabella was to fight in his place as destiny proclaimed. With both swords in their possession, it seemed that the odds were in their favor.

By the time they had all appeared on deck, Ares and his army had already appeared with their grand battalions. In awe, they stared at the scene before them. The _Hellride_ was flanked by countless ships of glowing red, sporting hundreds of soldiers on each. On the main deck was a large battalion of large glowing red soldiers, armed with impeccably sharp long swords, shields, and helmets, along with the determination to restore balance to the universe.

Ares' soldiers were once men who held onto a great dream of an optimistic world that energized them in their struggle against Hera's darkness. The habits of survival once learned were not easily forgotten, nor the addiction to the ideal of the past. They proved this to be true.

An inexperienced leader would assume that Hera's army of rebels were deluded ghosts of the afterlife - dangerous but deluded. Some might be sane, but all were criminal if not foolish. Their reality was composed of wishful thinking, their rationalization, and their assumptions bordered upon outrageous.

Ares' army was far from that mold. They were devoted, and if they could voice their true feelings, they would scream, "Give me a leader; a true leader, not a false charade of a leader, a true leader! Let him guide me in the true way, so that I may be loyal to him!"

Ares had become just that.

The gods of the heathen nations illustrated the character of its people, and were made by them in their own image. Hera's men thus strove to be what they worshipped.

History was a weapon fashioned from front to back, from now to then, a tale of justice denied, opportunities lost, a matter of bright flashes of martyrs and golden eras long gone so that black eras could flourish and blossom. History was witness to countless grievances, examples to be avoided, and buttress to a protracted conflict. In a small way, her army's only struggle reflected a larger effort: a protracted struggle with the just and the oppressive where only will could triumph over power.

She had the numbers, armadas, and the consensus of the conventional, so she was smug and in the position of underestimating the power of the army she was up against. For, yes, the big battalions usually win, but sometimes not.

One weapon that Ares possessed was The White Army – a small battalion of was to be immortal soldiers in white. But due to the decision made by Moore and the rest of the young soldiers, immortality was not an option. Ares could not argue with such a decision. The larger army would win if it could bring its superior size and strength to bear. The trick was to prevent that from happening, and Isabella's men were well trained enough to counter it, whether they were mortal or immortal.

As Ares' first battalion closed in and went on, The White Army began to constantly change their position within the crowd as they drew closer to Hera's army, moving swiftly within the fog amongst their own. It was evident that many brave men were to lie crushed and writhing at every charge of her frontline, but still their narrowing ranks were steadfast and just as dauntless as before. Still they stood before their enemy with lines compact with bonds of brotherhood and not servitude.

Just at the moment when The White Army moved to where their general stood, they'd found that their leader had already positioned himself at the very forefront of his troops upon the _Hellride_, glancing coldly at the leader of their enemy force – his very own mother, who appeared before him in a ghostly translucent shape.

Ares smiled, realizing that she feared him enough to not even materialize in the flesh. "The victor's song is in our mouths and our prisoner stands before us. Your spirits are with us still and certainly in our thoughts. Follow our lead, return to your places of rest, each to his own victory, where you may enjoy the sacrifices you've made. Do not become wandering ghosts in unfamiliar hamlets of restless shades under _her _command," Ares decreed, with great poise and stability in his voice. A great battle axe rested upon his shoulder with ease, as if it were no lighter than a feather.

"Ares, my son, you were always the most vengeful of all gods," Hera said, smiling as the false propaganda echoed throughout the battlefield. "Strife has certainly been dear to your heart, along with war and battle. These people have no reason to fight for you." She swept an eloquent arm toward Ares' army. "Tell them the truth about who you really are, before you do not have the breath in your lungs to redeem yourself."

"Truth does not arrive in a flash of enlightenment, mother, or a single instant of revelation. Few are bound by such a moment. And to you, the truth will only serve to probe reality, and will continue to fill it with unarticulated grievances and ruined hopes. Another tool for you to take advantage of, and I am no fool."

A shriek of laughter escaped his mother's lips. "Never did I think that I would see the day where my very own son would enlist mortals to wage war against the gods." She pouted her lips with pity. "You are truly lost, my child. End the war within your soul and bring peace to it. You cannot stand against me for all eternity and you will surely die doing so."

Once the killing began, the movement of Hera's army would truly be focused, and would be the real thrust into war. If such a thrust were to be blunted, they will seek other targets by nature. Exploitation of targets, access, and vulnerability would be factored in, but not discussed or planned. These rebels would kill, choose more targets, seek power and seek victory with blades encrusted with the blood of those who stood in their path.

"Spirits of this place, shades of departed men of the netherworld, here you are in sacrifice. You are nowhere near home. She will not moan and weep amidst sad clouds and angry mists because of your demise. You will only be vague forms of many demons floating away in the wind to her! End this suffering! End it now!"

Hera's army swelled anew as further reinforcements appeared, calm waters beneath their feet, the clouds growing thicker, but the wind was hushed. Four companies of ghostly foot soldiers and archers stood arrayed across the main deck. At the forecastle, three more companies of soldiers had themselves in place, with bows, slings, and spears in hand.

It was apparent that the army assembled before them was truly daunting. Even Ares himself felt his heart pounding and stumbled within himself, but he wouldn't allow Hera to see the slightest fragment of doubt.

The larger spirits of men who once resembled unearthly trolls stood centermost, their great pikes lifted high above a forest of wood and iron. Lesser spirits flanked and fronted them. In the blaze of new sunlight and old shadows, Hera's army looked to be large enough to crush any obstacle it encountered.

There was an expectant silence as the sun peaked through the clouds, lifting itself from the horizon to let the new day begin. The two armies faced each other across creaking timbers, armor and weapons glinting, pennants flying in a soft breeze, the sky a strange mist of pale blue and dark gray.

Clouds sailed overhead in vast, thick masses that threatened heavy rain and thunder. The acrid smell of scorched bodies and decaying skin wafted on the air, along with the smell of the residue from the watch lanterns doused. The White Army was crouched, nervously shifting in their place, taking deep breaths as they closed off thoughts of their home, family, and memories of better times.

Then the fog began to rise, the wind stirred it in wild clouds, and the size of Hera's army seemed to swell even more, rising from the dust as if they were fed by it.

The silence shattered, and the light changed. Deep within the dust and thunder of the army's coming; Death lifted its head with anticipation and looked about anxiously for the war to begin.

---


	32. Barrage the Enemy Lines

**A/N**: It's been awhile since my last update! Sorry about that, gents. But I'm finally back on track. This is my last chapter before I leave for vacation on Saturday for two weeks, so I hope you all enjoy it while I'm sitting under the Italian sun, eating various kinds of pizza and ice cream until I explode :)

As always, thank you Nytd for your wonderful beta fairy powers.

Enjoy!

---

**Chapter 32 – Barrage the Enemy Lines**

"_Why does love always feel like a battlefield?  
You better go and get your armor."_

Jordin Sparks

---

Twenty feet above the dead-calm ocean, Jack Sparrow stared miserably from _The Black Pearl's_ window.

"What am I doing here?" he grumbled to himself.

Two hands appeared and squeezed his shoulders. "**We're on a ship. How on earth are we on a ship**?"

Jack spun around, facing not one, but two … of his own face. Twins, no less. Triplets, if he counted himself. "You lot again?" He turned again, finding a dozen more about the room, tearing through pages of various books, studiously analyzing charts, and eloquently rubbing their chins in order to come across a formidable answer to such a critical inquiry.

"_Have we arrived at an explanation, lads?" _

"Aye, aye, Captain!" they all say in unison.

They gathered around Jack as he hunched over, resting on his elbows on his knees and cradling his head in his hands. He then leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He wanted to sleep again, but not there. He wiggled his toes some and cracked his neck. It was as if he had become an old man overnight.

"_What say you, Mister Sparrow_?"

"Hell?" he croaked, finally recalling where he was and why.

"_Highly unlikely. What remains to be seen continues to be not so clear."_

"**Why ever we're here and not elsewhere is a mystery to me**."

"_We have to get off now!"_

"**On the contrary, I say we stay. I also call for rum, and lots of it. Or perhaps, we can charter a course to Tortuga to liven things up a bit, aye? A bit of ol' Padraic's house rum and a lovely little wench to shag to our heart's content**…"

"She'll need to be blond," Jack cut in. "With eyes as blue as the sea. Anything, as long as she doesn't look like _her_."

"_A good ol' flogging is what you need." _

"Oh, and who are you to decide who should or should not merit a flogging?" Jack replied, narrowing his gaze.

"**Surely not tactful, to say the least**."

"_Not quite, he's on holiday, but I am to be taken quite seriously," _the voice announced._ "Responsibility, that is. I'm you - a part of you that never sees the light of day, but nevertheless, I still exist."_

"**A pistol is what he needs, to shut you up**."

"_A bit touchy, are we?" _the voice observed, continuing on unshaken. _"You're never going to see her again, you know." _

"**A bit shortsighted, are you**?" another voice replied. "**Sounding more and more like Da every bleeding day**."

"Oh, shut it!" Jack shouted, standing as he threw his arms up in annoyance. "And there's no bloody point in mulling over that one, seeing that she had no intention of seeing me again either."

"**The sea is all you really need, mate**."

"Aye, she's never disappointed me a day in me life," he muttered, passing his fingers along the_ Pearl's _walls. "Bloody good woman, she is."

"_We'll be settling into port in two days time_."

Jack nodded gloomily to the invisible voice. _Wonderful_. He pulled the shade and sat down at his chart table in an effort to finish his work, but he could only think of her. His compass spun endlessly, and he knew why.

"Where you going, Jackie?"

"Who are you?" Jack wrinkled his nose.

Silence. One smiting question and then there was silence, nothing more said. It was a silence that was more eloquent than words and so profound that it startled him.

In mere seconds, the chaos was put to an end, all of Jack's faces had vanished, all except one, who sat across the chart table, fingers interlocked, sporting a determined twinkle in his eye. "Go back," he said plainly. "Go back to the girl."

Jack looked up at a part of him he'd met once before. He greeted the ensuing bout he was about to have with Logic with a raise of his brow as he leaned back in his chair.

"You know, I've really had enough of you lot running about my vessel without a care in the world-"

"This isn't where you want to be," Logic interrupted, folding his arms.

"Ah, so it is you then." Jack raised a knowing finger. "How incredibly appropriate it is for you to show up _now_. As you've undoubtedly noticed, we're three days off course, mate," Jack replied seriously. "A little too late to be changing our minds now."

"There is an immeasurable difference between late and too late." Logic waved his hand over the spinning compass once, causing the needle to stop south-by-southwest. Rising to step back into the shadows, he parted by saying, "One often finds their fate on the road in which they chose to avoid it. Call it what you wish, Jackie, but _that_ is where you'll be needing to go."

Jack's eyes lingered on the eerily still compass rose. A heading.

"Go now, quickly, before you lose your resolve."

_Resolve? More like he couldn't bear the thought of her being out of his sight_. Since the moment he had taken her back from the clutches of the underworld, his needs no longer mattered - she had to be safe - even from him - _especially_ from him.

His heart longed for her to stay at his side, to look after him, but he knew that it would be selfish to expect her life to revolve around his. Above all, he needed his freedom, and so did she. He felt he had no right to companionship forever. He had to set out again one day. And Isabella needed to go back to her own life.

He saw it then – the aftermath of the grand battle, if she were to survive. There it was - her freedom. His vision took the form of a rain forest, dark and somber but for the water. It was everywhere, forming both small and large waterfalls, finding new paths and merging into rushing streams.

She would be so out of her element there, so completely without a clue what to do.

At that moment of weakness, he'd be at ease with the world, confident and powerful, showing her the way, while his eyes would search the area around them, trying to assess the danger to them - no - that was wrong - the danger to her.

Feeling even more irresolute, Jack arose from his chart table and headed toward the door, hoping that some time at the _Pearl's_ wheel could clear his judgment.

What he found standing just outside his cabin was most unexpected. The entire crew seemed to be blocking his exit, with Barbossa standing at the forefront with his arms folded, wearing a look of determination that could only be overshadowed by that bloody peacock on his head.

"_They plan to mutiny_," said a voice. "_Mutiny_!"

_Mutiny_? Jack gulped. He looked about him at the dancing waves, bewildered and awe-stricken.

"Jaaack," Barbossa said. "We were a-thinkin', Jack…"

"Thinking, aye? Dangerous thing, that is. About what, may I ask?" Jack interrupted. "Because, if I'm not mistaken, the last time you lot had your bout with _thinking_, you shipped dear ol' Jack off to the nearest island with naught but a pistol and one bloody shot."

"Lucky it is for you that we'll be not doin' the same this time around, unless ye'll not be willing to cooperate in the listenin' of our terms."

"Terms?" A deep furrow etched its way through Jack's glistening brow.

"Oh yes." Barbossa smiled. "The crew and I all feel that this venture of ours has gone slightly off course."

"Off course, you say?"

"Aye, just a tad," Barbossa replied, taking a confident step toward Jack. "Now, if ye wouldn't mind, we'll be headin' back now to finish what we damn well started. Real question is, Jack; are you a-comin'?"

"The question isn't if I'm coming; it's who's going to stop me."

They walked with a vicious speed up to the quarterdeck. One could see the great passion and effort that kept Jack going. When he reached the wheel, he slapped the side of it with a trembling hand, and looked at Gibbs.

"Mr. Gibbs?"

Gibbs looked back at him. "Well, Cap'n?"

Jack's eyes were on the sky, then down at his compass. With a sly smirk he simply said, "Adjust course."

"Aye, aye, Cap'n! Steady! Now stand by to brace the foreyard!" ordered Gibbs. "Cotton, for the love o' heaven, help Ragetti with the foreyard brace!"

"Think we can make it in time?" Barbossa asked, staring back from whence they came.

"It won't be half as bad as chasing _The Flying Dutchman_," Jack said plainly. The fog that enveloped the _Hellride_ would steadily advance toward them as the _Pearl_ arrived. The _Pearl _could probably keep under it as long as she can run safely.

"Can you judge about where the _Hellride_ is likely to be under that confounded mist?" Gibbs inquired further.

"_Not a clue, but let's not spoil the fun, shall we_?" The voice's honesty elicited a grimace on Jack's face, though to anyone else, he appeared to be giving Gibbs' question fair consideration.

"An odd chase it'll be," he finally replied.

With a small nod from his captains, Gibbs and the crew made themselves busy by taking in the jib halyards and putting them through the leading block to the winch head.

---

Raindrops pelted her face and in the distance a boom of thunder mingled with the roar of cannons. Isabella moved her eyes toward the sky, but dared not to move, even if the hard, needle-like drops stung her face. She almost stopped breathing; somehow she knew that it wasn't supposed to be raining.

The ships were long gone, and a great fog had blanketed their surroundings on the first day of battle, transforming the mortal world into another; the ground beneath her feet was unknown and flanked with holes that dropped men into the underworld.

Through the course of the night just past, Isabella led her meager troop through the mist. Children of Darkness, with Ares' quiet power embracing them, they had moved in silence, undetected as far as they could tell, for no alarms were raised. The area was a thing seemingly dead, like a closed flower. The White Army had an advantage amidst the billowing fog, but Isabella had moved away from her men against direct orders, losing herself and James Moore instantly within the unforgiving labyrinth.

They had slipped past areas in which Hera's worshippers danced, starved limbs waving about, distended bellies swaying, and voices moaning in disjointed choruses. Even those faces that by chance turned toward them as they moved ghostly past did not awaken with recognition. Their eyes remained dull, empty, and unseeing.

The air was warm, smelling of rancid salt mixed with the heavier stench of putrefying corpses.

Moore crouched down, uncertain. There must be watchers. It would be madness to think otherwise.

What awaited them? There was only one way to find out. "Let's go."

All at once, with their first strides out along the enemy lines, the air seemed to swirl, thick and heavy. Moore found himself pushing against it, for tightness was forming in his throat and chest.

"They're burning bodies," he hissed. "Can you smell it?"

"Quiet," she whispered through clenched teeth.

Fifty, fifty-five paces now. Silence all around. Isabella set her eyes on the frontlines, the ground glistening with dew or something far worse. She could feel something dark and unpleasant in her veins, likes bubbles in her blood, or seeds, eager to burst to life. She felt that she could be moments from losing control.

Behind her, hard gasping breaths - James Moore was feeling just about the same, they all were.

"Behind us," Moore grunted.

And to the sides, crowds closed in from every angle. Slowly, dark shapes pushed one another to move forward. They looked like scarecrows, cut loose from their stakes.

Forty strides. Every avenue was closed to them now.

"We're being herded," said James, his voice tight. "They want us to cross over."

Hundreds of figures drew closer, blackened eyes gleaming, mouths hanging open. Knives, hatches, pitchforks and hammers dangled down from their hands. The only sound that came from them was the shuffle of their bared feet.

Twenty paces now from the line. To the right and left, and in their wake, the guards at the front lines lifted their weapons, then those behind them followed suit.

Two against a thousand or more fanatics, fearless and senseless. They heard a pair of swords rasp free of scabbards. The sound sliced through the air, and it was as if the cold iron touched their brows, startling them awake.

The crowd was close now, a bestial growl rising.

Moore reached out to Isabella, grabbing her shoulders. "We have to split up."

"You intended on going alone?" Isabella protested as his gaze hardened. "Are you mad? How am I supposed to find you?"

"You can make it through the crowd on your own." His grip tightened, his heart was tense over the thought of leaving her to fend for herself, but his mind knew that she was force to be reckoned with all on her own. "I know you can. I'll cross over to the other side and meet you at the rendezvous with Jordan. No matter what happens, do not cross over to find me."

"James, you can't-"

"We don't have a choice!" he cut in aggressively. "You have to find the others. This is the only way."

Isabella fastened her eyes to the ground, fighting back more than just tears, and finally looked up at James. Suddenly, her arms flew forward and embraced for a long moment in silence.

James reluctantly pulled away, cupping his hands around her face. "Promise me that you'll find Jordan."

All she could do was nod her head, words were far beyond her at that moment.

Shouting a warning, Moore unsheathed his sword and plunged through enemy lines. Iron rang, thudded into flesh and bones. There was no light - every torch in its sconce had been capped, yet his eyes could penetrate the gloom.

The fools were human. In this darkness, they were half blind. He slashed out; saw a head roll off shoulders, and the body crumpling. A back swing intercepted an arm thrusting a dagger at his chest. The sword's edge sliced through wrist bones and the severed hand, still gripping the weapon, thumped against his chest before falling away.

Sword against dagger was no contest. As the poor creatures toppled, sobbing from mortal wounds, Moore whipped his sword free and spun to meet the next attacker, who caught him by surprise.

From beyond enemy lines, Isabella heard James Moore's piercing scream. Making it through the crowd of Hera's worshippers was no longer her priority.

James was in trouble. He had moved far too forward into the line of fire, and she prayed that she'd find him and get to him in time. If she could pass the front line, everything would be right again. Just the thought of him being captured caused her legs to become so weak that they shook beneath her, threatening to collapse with every step. The harder she tried to run, the weaker her legs became.

She had been running for days, never stopping to consider the danger. It somehow didn't seem important. It mattered only that she kept going, kept making progress.

She needed to hurry.

She needed to keep going.

She needed to go faster.

She was certain of the direction in which she had to go, but didn't know why she felt so certain of it.

She traced the map of the world in her mind as she went, even though it would do her no good, and hardly let herself breathe as she ran through the mist; for fear that she might be heard. Though, nothing could stop her from continuing on, not even the fact that she didn't know where she was running to, until she drew close to voices, screams, and moving lights.

Too close.

Somehow, she had to get ahead of the fog, find a hiding place that she could watch from, and see who the voices belonged to and what they were doing with James. In the fog she moved, in and out of the thick billows, slipping by ghosts and creatures of the night with bated breath, hoping that the smell of grime and blood on her armor would not give her away. At times, she tried to remain still as a shadow as she figured out what to do. It was hard to stay still because of the cold, and she tried not to shiver for fear of giving herself away. She wanted desperately to rub her arms.

By the time she had arrived at a safer location, she witnessed one of Hera's terrible beasts lunging forward and swinging its meaty arm at an unarmed man, and he was struck to the ground, landing on his back with a hard thud.

Isabella fixed her eyes on the dueling pair, recognizing the man's large form and long, fiery hair. James' eyes remained opened as he hit the ground, his mouth still moved, but he was dangling helplessly along the lines of death. Suddenly, too late, her mind arrived at the scene. Isabella threw herself between James and the beast, and swung her gladius up and across its face. Cool raindrops mixed with warm black blood, and as it fell, she saw a streak of brilliant lightning that matched the clap of thunder above.

"James!" Isabella turned away from the spectacle to aid her friend who was dying. His heart beat was so hard she felt it pounding, thudding against his chest. He could barely breathe. No matter how many times she tried to stop a tragedy on the battlefield, it always ended the same way. She was never fast enough.

James fastened his glistening eyes on Isabella. He was weak, he was dying, but energy and an unearthly light flickered in his eyes. He didn't speak, but merely raised a hand to run his fingers through the thick, wet strands of hair that hung from her head.

"James, what happened? Why did you run from me?" she gasped, holding back her sobs. "Why didn't you stay?"

"To protect…" his voice trailed. Bloody hands reached up and grabbed Isabella's shirt. "You can't stay here with me. You must go find Jordan. You promised."

"You disobeyed a direct order! You shouldn't have left me!" she yelled, feeling repentant just as soon as the words left her mouth.

"So did you," he replied feebly.

"Shush, James," she urged. "Don't move. I need to get you out of here, understand?"

James didn't hear her, instead he responded, "You left on your own accord to find me." He winced as he tried to move, suddenly feeling the full extent of the blow upon his chest. "Why did you come back for me?"

There were many questions she wanted to ask, but only one thing she could think to say. "I will not leave you behind."

"You will, if I say so," James replied, his gaze hard and his grip on her shirt remained unrelenting. "Why are you crying?"

She shook her head; her lips quivered so much that she couldn't respond. She couldn't tell him that the blow from the beast had left a severe wound on his chest, and he was dying. With her sleeve, Isabella wiped away the tears that stained her painted white face.

"If I promised you that I will do everything in my power to stay alive, will you be satisfied with that?" he asked as his hand slid to her cheek. "But you must go. I will find my own way."

She rested her head on his chest, and listened to his heart give way.

"What choice do I have?" she croaked after a long moment, wiping away her tears with her already wet sleeves.

"None," he whispered, smiling as he closed his eyes. "None at all." His jaw tightened. Every muscle in his body relaxed as his mind slipped into darkness.

Isabella took a quivering breath; her whole body shook from his words. "James!" she yelled in desperation, tapping his cheeks. "James, don't leave me!"

In the rain, she stayed kneeling beside him, shielding his face from the elements for what seemed like an eternity, quietly listening to James' dangerously slow breathing, until she caught her own breath. He was unconscious. Now time was her biggest enemy.

Panicking, she tried to pull him up to carry him over her shoulder, but his body was far too heavy and slippery from the rain. All she could do was try to keep him breathing, and try to drag his body away from the line of fire, while forcing herself not to think of what could be lurking in the shadows nearby.

She didn't want to lose him, but after a long awhile of dragging his body, her mind, along with her body, became so exhausted that she feared the fact that she might not be able to hold onto him.

All this time, she had thought her men were close to invincible, and now she was nervously climbing to her feet, grabbing James by his underarms, and dragging him away with every ounce of strength she had left in her.

Isabella staggered forward, every muscle aching as she strained to fight off her weaknesses. She could feel his blood running down her hands and legs, causing her grip to slip every so often. He would heal quickly, she thought. She was certain of it. Her duty was not yet finished, and neither was his.

"Ares," Isabella gasped as she fought to pull James further, until falling to her knees in exhaustion. "Ares, I'm here!"

It was a miraculous coincidence that Isabella was able to drag James Moore's body as far as she did. Feeling satisfied with the distance she had traveled, she rested for a moment by James' side, hoping to regain her strength to finish the job.

What was even more miraculous was the object that rolled toward her just a few moments after she closed her eyes and allowed weariness to overcome her senses.

The object rolled along the bloodstained battlefield, curving around rocks and patches of dirt until it slowly came to a halt next to James Moore's shoulder and set its wooden iris upon the unconscious Isabella.

---

Ear to the ground, Jordan moved through the mist with a group of six men heading toward higher grounds to the east. But though the sky above the world was clear, beyond it mist laid heavy on the land and water alike, seeming to rise from a sea of cloud.

In a ground-fog, it was easy for one to lose his bearings, and even if Jordan was able avoid putting the men in danger; there were bogs and hollows that could be more treacherous still. His instincts became his compass, though he would have still never dared the path in such darkness if it were not for Isabella's carelessness in running off with James to travel on their own accord.

Now the first wisps of mist were curling across the path.

_Was it even possible to pass beyond them_? he wondered.

"Jordan," Murphy whispered from behind, "can you see anything?" He took another step and a shift in the wind brought the mist billowing around them, catching the light so that they were surrounded by moon glow.

Jordan sighed, for he could not see anything but nebulous light, so he waited, shivering until a pale shape appeared as if it had precipitated from the mist. In this strange state, in which air and water, light and dark were mangled as the Druids said all the elements had been joined at the beginning of the world, he could not make out whether the object was friend or foe, but he anticipated the worst. The mist continued to brighten, and then suddenly thinned. Jordan stopped short, staring, feeling the six behind him suddenly crash into one another at his halt.

Ahead, a pale light that came neither from the sun or the moon showed them a fork just up ahead. The left-hand path curved around and disappeared back into the darkness. The narrow path on the right twisted its way over a small hill, with an unfamiliar figure appearing just over the crest.

"I'll go forward alone," Jordan announced. "Once the path is cleared, I'll call for the rest of you to move forward."

A simple nod of understanding from each one of the men was all he needed, and the ring of soldiers parted as Jordan left the circle, his sword unsheathed. He drew in a deep breath and blew it out slowly. He had to meet the figure in the mist and move on.

Had to, for her sake.

He licked his lips, wondering why the hell he was so afraid of something as harmless as mist, and marched forward. The ethereal fingers formed and reached for him, he ignored them and kept on moving. Their touch was almost exploratory and yet, at the same time, pressing, as if they intended to halt him gently. He had expected the mist to be cold, and in some ways, it was. Yet it burned against his skin, like the sting of lemon juice against a wound. The farther he walked down the path, the fiercer that sting got.

It was that, more than fear, that stopped him, but still his senses could feel nothing, see nothing. There was just that itch, telling him that something or someone was there was watching him.

"What are you?" he called out. His voice came out croaky and the figure in front of him stirred.

No answer came from the figure or the darkness beyond the mist. He tried again. "I know you're there! Answer me!"

"The little Warrior King has courage. He wants answers." The voice was female, and came from everywhere and yet nowhere. It hung from the air and yet reverberated through his mind. It was gentle, and yet, at the same time, harsh.

And weird, to say the least.

"But deep down he's so _scared_, so human." Amusement rolled off her tongue, in much the same manner that her words had. "How quaint. I can see why _she_ likes you."

"Sorry, but patience has never been a virtue of mine. Come out and show yourself at once!" Jordan ordered.

Again amusement swam around him, but this time it was accompanied by an odd sense of approval.

Jordan grew frustrated at such amusement. "Tell me who you are!" What, who, where - the basic questions of interrogation.

The presence seemed to consider his question for an extremely long time. Or maybe wariness and fear just made it seem that way. Then the figure moved forward through the mist, revealing itself to be a troll dressed in full armor, its eyes burning in anger, and eager to fight.

It laughed, and it was suddenly such a creepy sound that he backed away a step before he realized what he was doing, and stopped. Up until that moment, he'd felt no real malevolence from the mist, but right then it seemed like he was teetering on the edge of an endless pit, and the feminine voice was behind him, ready to push.

"You will believe in demons of flesh and blood by the end of all this, Warrior King," whispered the female voice in his ear.

The troll removed his shirt, and the muscles on his chest rippled as he danced from stance to stance.

With a resigned sigh, Jordan unlaced the ties on his shirt and removed it, tossing the garment to the side. The troll drew his sword, and the sound of steel rasping on leather silenced the world around them. Suddenly, all was quiet. The land was still.

"The human has slighted your honor, Ogmar," said the voice. "Shall you see him humbled?"

The troll's eyes flashed again; his hard angular face pinched even more. He sneered at Jordan and spat on the ground, then aimed a cold glare at Jordan. "The goddess is with me, and I will be victorious. Do not worry, human, you will get to feel my sword even though I will defeat you." His grin was malicious.

The troll smiled, turning to circle Jordan, extending a hand to him. "Do you accept this challenge?"

Jordan did not have much time to consider his options. As soon as the air cleared around them, the troll leapt forward, with his sword flashing amidst the darkness. Jordan ducked the swing and stepped to the side, trying to size up his opponent. Again the troll swung viciously, and Jordan stepped back to dodge the blow. An unearthly sound escaped the troll's lips, snarling as its sword flew again. A third time, he managed to dodge it by a hair. He had not yet moved his blade, not even in defense.

The troll circled him, his sword thrusting out periodically in quick stabs or violent slashes. Jordan kept it on his right, circling backward, refusing to meet the troll's blade with his own. As the moments drew on, the troll's temper flared, and it lunged, his blade whistling through the air. Jordan twisted to the side, and the troll's sword hit the ground, clanging as it contacted the smooth stone.

The trolls recovered quickly and scuttled back, wary of a return attack, but Jordan did not lift his blade. Trembling with rage, the troll attacked again, his sword a blur of silvered steel. One, two, three quick slashes.

"Fight me, coward!" the troll commanded, his voice a howl. He ran toward Jordan with his sword swinging in a wide arc.

Jordan ducked aside, and the troll's blade whistled above his head. As the troll rushed past, Jordan extended a foot, causing the troll to tumble face first to the ground beneath his feet. Gravel scuttled across the stone, clicking and clacking.

A howl of laugher pierced the air as Jordan waited patiently for the troll to regain his footing. Blood, mixed with dirt, streaked the troll's chest. "A coward's trick!" it called out, loud enough for all to hear.

But the laughter in the mist continued – the woman could not contain herself. "Only fools fall for traps set by cowards," she affirmed, letting out another shrill of laughter from deep within her throat.

Jordan smirked. "I'm glad you find this amusing."

"Amusing? You make a common error, namely considering death a tragedy, when it is not," she said; Jordan could almost feel her malicious smile. "It is quite the opposite."

Jordan scoffed. "You are too vain, capricious, and too fond of your own way. Do you not see what tragedy this war has caused?"

Silence. For a long moment there was nothing but the sound of the howling wind.

The figure of a young beautiful woman generated from beyond the mist. Beautifully naked, with long, cascading blond curls slithering down her as if they were celebrating the wild, untamed beauty of spring upon her lithe form, Hera's human form appeared before him. Her large, beautiful blue eyes pierced his very soul. "Do you realize the eternal precondition of tragedy?"

"Do you?" Jordan responded coldly, realizing who had been watching the duel all along.

"Oh, I do. However, you have failed to answer my question. The precondition of tragedy is the existence of ideals that are considered more valuable than human life. And what are the preconditions of war? The same thing," she affirmed. "Think of this. They drive you to your death because, presumably, there is something greater than your life. War can only exist in a world of tragedy, and you, my dear Warrior King, are very, _very_ tragic."

"The human is afraid to meet me blade for blade," the troll interjected. "He is craven, as are all humans!"

"Ogmar." Hera spoke the troll's name slowly, regaining her control over the beast. "Up." With a flick of her fingers, the troll was on its feet. She walked toward the beast slowly, placing her palm upon his forehead. "The human fears you as much as I fear you, and that doesn't shock me. He _chooses_ to not meet you blade for blade._ She _taught him better than that."

An invisible spark of energy surged through her body, and pierced the head of the creature, shooting blood and shards of its skull across the ground. "It seems that I have no use for you any longer."

As the body toppled to the ground with a great thud, Hera turned her attention to Jordan, and regarded his body openly.

Hera then lifted a hand to the young warrior and said, "Shall we?"

Jordan pursed his lips and narrowed his brow. "Mind for mind."

Hera smiled, lifting her delicate chin ever so confidently as the rest of her body dematerialized into the mist once more. "You are a brilliant ally of your own gravedigger."

---


	33. Destiny Rising

**Chapter 33 – Destiny Rising**

---

She felt like a failure, hopelessly inadequate to a task that was far too important to entrust to anyone else.

It was unbearable. She thought she might be dying, and for the first time, she didn't think that it would be such a bad thing if death would make the pain go away.

She felt incompetent, but then she remembered that it wasn't about her – it was about James. Her stomach rolled again, and another wave of intense agony cut in at the thought of him. He had been lying motionlessly beneath her for quite some time. Her eyes swelled, as she realized that she had failed him when he counted on her most.

She had failed everyone.

Every moment of her life, from when she was a little girl, all she wanted to do, all she'd ever prepared for, was for that moment - that battle. Eighteen-hundred years and over four hundred men later, she was about to leave her life, her soul, her everything, because she finally came to realize that she wasn't prepared at all.

The weight of such a disaster stunned her. Her mind was strangely active, but her body was very tired - more tired than she had ever thought possible for her body to be, and her soul felt dead.

Everything seemed dully unreal and far away. Everything seemed meaningless.

She felt the wind on her cheek without any response to its touch. She was deaf to the sounds around her, and her heart gave no reaction to the bright warmth of the sun.

The light was gone from her eyes.

She wondered if that was what it felt like to be stabbed over and over again.

Darkness. She blacked out again, and when she next opened her eyes, she was flat on her back, with a shadow leaning over her.

Trying to bring her eyes to focus, she saw that the shadow had dark brown eyes, surrounded within a sea of clear white that could only be tamed by even darker lines. Though, she kept slipping in and out of consciousness, spasms wrenching her stomach, and the shadow jerked her softly. "Bloody hell, Bella," he growled, placing a hand behind her neck as he let the other rake through her hair. "Can you hear me?"

Darkness again.

The thick cords of his hair fell around her face as he drew near. Jack stared at her lips for a long moment. No answer.

As he leaned in closer to check the consistency in her breathing, he brushed his cheek softly against hers, savoring the feel of her skin for a moment before removing his coat and wrapped it around her body.

"Hold on, love," he whispered reassuringly. "Jack's got you."

Heaving her off the ground, Jack threw her over his shoulder without hesitation, running toward the faint shadows of his crew within the mist.

Isabella didn't know how long she had been out, but when she opened her eyes, the bright lights made her squint. Where the hell was she? She couldn't summon up enough energy to move. She thought she might have been on a table, for the surface she was on was hard and cold.

"Send for the ship's doctor. There be more here than we can tend to," one said to another, a voice that was vaguely familiar.

She heard rough footsteps in the earth around her and assumed that they belonged those who were checking the living. She could vaguely see the darkened figures of other men, spread out amongst bodies, pulling the dead and comforting those who were hurt.

"Where am I?" Her mouth was dry, she slurred the question.

She heard a scuffle of feet, and she recognized that the footsteps were coming toward her. "Miss Isabella?" Another shadow loomed above her, this one slightly thinner than the first one she encountered. "Are yeh alrigh'?"

"Got a live one here, Cap'n's!" another familiar voice announced.

More shadows gathered around her. Voices were all around her, warm, kind, familiar ones. There was a cool cloth pressed against her forehead.

And that touch, the one she recognized, just as the flutter of kisses that followed. When he kissed her, she had no power to resist, and all the old feelings came rushing back on a tidal wave of memory.

"You're a vision, Bella," he whispered, touching her nose softly with his as she panted for breath beneath him.

Warm, familiar, comforting arms turned her around, and she let herself relax into them. Jack held her for a what felt like a long time, telling her that she was safe, letting her weep against his chest, letting her cry out all the fear and rage and confusion that plagued her. After awhile, the fear and rage were gone, and she cried, instead, out of grief.

He kissed her one last time, and when his lips broke away from hers, she looked up at him, her face wet and her eyes swollen, and she felt more vulnerable than ever. She knew she should say something, but nothing came to her.

She blinked and then frowned. "James," she whispered in a small voice, "so much blood."

All of a sudden, an unearthly noise ripped through the night: a long, continuous, inhuman scream. The scream prompted the crew to stop in their tracks and attempt to peer through the relentless fog to identify its origin. More screams prompted them to unsheathe their cutlasses.

Jack assisted Isabella to her feet, and after placing a strong arm around her waist said, "That doesn't sound promising a'tall."

"It never does." She clenched her teeth, unsheathing her sword in unison with Jack.

Isabella then rushed past the men, toward the front where Hector Barbossa stood, armed and ready for the onslaught. Barbossa tipped his hat to her, and unleashed a rather wicked smile, which she returned. The worshippers where everywhere, darkening their surroundings just like rainclouds over the landscape, but what ended up frightening her more was what they were carrying.

Elevated high above their heads was a body – viciously beaten, brown locks darkened by the presence of blood, muscles limp from exhaustion. As it neared the front of the crowd, the worshippers threw it down at their feet, seemingly proud and amused at the bloodcurdling display.

Isabella looked down at the body and was overcome by a sense of profound loss.

_Jordan?_

More bodies emerged, carried forward by the crowd, finally cascading down at their feet.

_Murphy? Brodie? Colin? _

As the bodies tumbled forward, Isabella cried out from the pain that wretched her stomach and her heart.

Bloodied. Battered. Lifeless.

Had she lost them all?

Jack's eyes were wide, but not at the bodies before him. His horror was of her, another spirit before him. He wet his lips. A hiss of feminine laughter echoed throughout the battlefield as her figure drew forward.

"Would anyone else like to play?"

---

James wanted to weep, but he knew enough to save that for later, for that final stumble through. He had never been one for prayers, yet he prayed nonetheless. Not to a god or goddess, not to some unknown force at ease with the gift of mercy. No, he prayed for peace.

A world of calm.

He did not know if such a world existed, anywhere. He did not know if one such as he deserved that world. Paradise belonged to the innocent.

Standing over him were weapons whirling and spinning, but James could only look on with one eye as the other dragged Isabella away, waiting for his end, an end he only faintly regretted. The failure, his failure, yes, that deserved some regret. But then, had he truly believed he could stop Hera's army singlehandedly?

Yes, he _did_.

"And for whom?" The wind chilled as the question echoed within his mind.

"You may possess ambition, and with it a self-image both grandiose and posturing, but they are such empty things in the end, are they not, James Moore?"

James swallowed hard and took in several sharp breaths.

"She knows that you're dying," continued the voice. He moved his eye toward the sky and saw _her_, staring down at him without emotion, and then he turned away from her.

James turned his head back after awhile, and saw _her_ again, standing close. "What made you what you are right now, soldier?" she asked, her voice running through his body, as if she were right under his skin.

"I don't know." His mouth filled with blood that frothed and spattered with every word, but she understood him nonetheless. "I've failed my men ... my men. I've failed them and myself. Failure, yes. That is what has made me into what I am."

"Is that why she is leaving you to die?" she asked. "Because you've decided to lead them all to their deaths? And what are you? You are nothing . . . you deserve suffering and pain."

Tears fell from his eyes. "I deserve to die."

She let out a shrilling laugh. "Of course you deserve it! More than all the others. However, I can bring you peace."

He wanted nothing more than to scream, as if it would somehow ameliorate the agony, but it could not. His muscles seemed to be losing their life along with the rest of him. He could not breathe, or even hold his head up.

"I cannot heal you," she said bluntly. "But yours is a strong soul, James Moore, and you will not cease to exist if you relinquish your body to me."

Blackness was enveloping him. Even the insufferable pain was beginning to seem distant. He felt life slipping from his grasp. He felt an emptiness coming upon him that was more ghastly than anything he thought possible.

"Relinquish your body to me, James Moore, or I shall take it by force."

In the fading recesses of his mind, he felt a presence.

He felt its fetid breath on his neck.

Then he saw a face, one that differed greatly from the one who threatened him. She was innocent, a beautiful young maiden, just on the edge of womanhood. He closed his eyes, and yet, he still saw her.

The young woman smiled at him, bowed an eloquent, queenly bow, and extended her hand.

From deep with, from the core of his mind, from the core of his being, from the core of his soul, he wrenched his will to action, and by force of will, with frantic colossal effort, he yanked his power, his life - himself - back.

And he grabbed the young maiden's hand.

All at once, he was still. Her eyes came to him like hooded lanterns, her arms settling in as if she had taken his soul right out of him, letting it spin somewhere unseen.

"James Moore, your soul is now safe with me."

---

"Oh, don't look so sad." Hera pouted momentarily before twisting her lips into a wicked smile, the sight raised hackles on the back of Isabella's neck, and toes curled within the crew's boots. "He was so close. I've never experienced such fire and determination. You have no idea of the glory of what he had, but I will have him yet. No matter how much he refuses to cooperate."

"Perhaps, it's because I was doing things the easy way. Now, we do it the hard way."

Ragetti blinked, whispering to Pintel, "What does she mean, the hard way?"

She held out a hand. A sword generated from the darkness.

"Bollocks." They both gulped simultaneously.

With a shriek, Hera swept across the clearing toward them. Her sword flashed in the moonlight.

Without thinking, Barbossa brought his blade up and blocked her strike. Barbossa wondered why his sword didn't shatter under the weight of hers, but then he was moving. The dance with death had begun.

He countered her strikes, and she his. He evaded attacks that should have had him, and she thwarted attacks that should have had her. She spun like the wind, like a true goddess, and slipped away at the last instant, smiling as she did. Barbossa felt as if he were fighting a shadow. No human could move the way she did.

Behind him, he felt a sudden, loathsome presence. He checked the trust of her blade, and spun, bringing the sword around with lightning speed. For an instant, he saw the shadow of a large man behind him, with a malicious glare, and then Hera's sword made solid contact with his, while another made more intimate contact with his throat.

"Do you yield to your true master?" The voice of James Moore asked quietly, digging the edge of his blade into Barbossa's throat, allowing droplets of blood to trickle down from where the sharp edge dug into his skin.

From behind, a shadow snarled and swung its arms high above its head. The blow was lightning fast and Moore did not have enough time to dodge it.

Jordan slammed into his already injured shoulder and sent a wave of pain radiating down his arm. Moore stumbled back, hissing in a breath, and Jordan was on him in an instant. Their blades met for the first time, causing Moore to force the pain to the back of his mind.

He looked up to find Jordan looming over him. "Do you?"

Isabella's blood rushed through her veins and a sudden spark of adrenaline rushed through her as she saw Jordan – living, breathing, and conquering. Murphy and the others had also slowly risen to their feet, grunting as they shifted their weary bones back into place. They looked as if they were back from the dead, or so it seemed.

Jordan smiled and continued attacking him without remorse, knowing that the man before him was no longer the James Moore he had come to know and love as an elder brother; his blade moved so quickly that the eye could not follow. His movements were graceful, knowing that he had to use all his skill to keep Moore at bay.

Their blades whirled, moving as if dancing, and the sound of clanging metal rang through the air. Isabella could not keep her face even; she watched with growing terror as did all assembled.

Jordan, backing away, slipped on some loose gravel and dropped to one knee, and Moore pressed the advantage. Jordan tried to deflect the blade, but was not quick enough. The tip of Moore's sword cut a shallow gash down his arm, and a lance of pain shot through him.

Their blades hit the ground together, and Jordan was momentarily exposed. Smiling in triumph, Moore swung his blade in a wide arc, hoping to catch Jordan full force with the flat of his sword. At the last possible instant, Jordan ducked under the swing, rising up to catch Moore's sword from behind. With a flick of his own sword, Jordan knocked Moore's from his hand. The blade slid across the ground, scraping the gravel.

"Do _you_ yield?" Jordan hoped the answer was be yes, but knew otherwise.

Moore dove to the ground, rolling to retrieve his blade. He stood, blade in hand, and ran toward Jordan screaming defiantly.

Jordan pushed Moore's blade aside and stepped into him, shoving with his shoulder. Jordan was panting hard and knew he could not last much longer. He had one, maybe two more chances to stop Moore, or he would be too weak to continue.

"End this now, James," Jordan said desperately. "Can you hear me? Don't let her control you. I don't want to hurt you and you don't want to hurt us."

At Jordan's word, Moore went wild. He spat blood and saliva on the stones at his feet. "I will end this now!" he replied. "But I will end it with your blood." Screaming, he threw Jordan to the ground.

As James and Jordan danced around one another, the slaughter of worshippers continued. As Isabella observed the front line, she caught Murphy amidst what seemed to be a daze. He smiled, and although his expression seemed distant, he had a spark of arrogance and contentment to his poise, and had she had the time, she would have slapped him. Hard. Hard enough to shake the glee from his eyes. There was nothing glorious about what they were doing. The fools came on and on, rushing the lines, crushing each other in their need, and she and Murphy killed them one by one.

Fighting against absurd odds was what they were trained to do, and it seemed that it was something they did damnably well. However, that was no source of pride. Desperate defense demanded expedience and little else.

And so, blood spilled down, bodies crumpled at their feet, only to be dragged clear by the next ones to die.

Isabella killed her twentieth worshipper, and he was no different from the nineteenth, no different from the very first one back where they'd begun.

Blood mixed with rain and tears. It was all so pointless.

Moments later, the worshippers changed their tactics. With frenzied screams, they pushed forward together, and those Isabella and her men mortally wounded were simply heaved ahead, dying, flailing shields of flesh and bone. As the mob drove onward, the attackers poured with triumphant shrieks.

Murphy stopped smiling.

Jack, Barbossa, and the crew were back-to-back, fighting off the remnants of the first line when they heard the savage cries behind them. Spinning around, they saw Isabella and her men retreating under an onslaught of maddened figures.

"Oh, bugger." Jack stopped for a moment, looking at the crowd with the same wide expression he'd sport if he'd had a bad ration of rum. As he was analyzing the enormity of the crowd, he was ignoring the fact that he and Barbossa were still engaged in battle.

Barbossa began fighting off not only his, but Jack's share of Hera's worshipers. "Get yer head out of yer arse and move, Jack!" Barbossa yelled as he grabbed Jack by the shoulder, pushing him forward. "Mark me words, I won't be wastin' more time pullin' you out of a well deserved fate!"

"Right!" the crew said in unison as they ran back to where Jordan and James were still skirmishing.

Their blades continued to collide with a thunderous clang. Yet again, Moore raised his sword and started forward, and Jordan met his assault, flicking his wrist in a circle. Moore's blade flew into the air, and Jordan used the opportunity to smash his elbow hard into Moore's jaw. Moore stumbled, dropping to his knees.

Sucking in a pained breath, determined not to fall, Jordan caught Moore's sword by the hilt with his left hand, nearly dropping it as pain raced up and down his side. He lowered both blades to Moore's neck, one on each side. "Do you yield?" he asked for the final time.

It was Hera who spoke, not Moore. "He does not have to," she replied. "You hold his weapon to his neck. Let's make the odds a little more even, shall we?"

As the battle wound its way across the clearing, both James and Jordan were strained with all the fury they could bring forth. In an instant, Hera sent a bolt of fire racing toward Jordan. He dodged it at the last instant and it flew past, hitting a tree. The trunk exploded in a shower of splinters. The top of the tree crashed down around him, causing some of the branches to knock him from his feet. Hera then turned to James and held a hand to his face, stealing the light from his eyes.

"You've served me well, my child." Hera cleaned her sword on James' armor, smearing Jordan's blood upon his white cloak.

Isabella witnessed James' limp body fall to its knees at Hera's feet, and rage churned inside of her, causing her knuckles to turn white at the hilt of her sword.

As Hera prepared another lightning bolt to finish off Jordan, Isabella finally made her strike, their blades meeting for the first time since Isabella's banishment.

They clashed over and over again while descending a steep hill; Isabella began to analyze Hera's tactics. She fought ferociously, but without grace - like a soldier in combat among the lines.

They way she attacked, slashing and swinging, left her open for a thrusting counterattack. Isabella pressed that attack at her, but when she finally managed to thrust at her middle, the strike that should have found its mark, slid to the side.

Hera was protected, somehow.

Isabella was exhausted, and was fighting on the pure rage and fury that Hera was able to evoke from harming those closest to her.

Hera didn't even seem winded. "You can't win, Cleopatra. I will have you. I will have my reward."

Isabella ducked behind a tree, just missing a swing that sent wood chips flying. She stabbed at Hera, but the sword slid to the side once more.

Hera's blade whistled past Isabella's face. Her calm, deliberate attacks were relentless. "Save yourself the trouble, my little revolutionary. I'm sure that if I allowed your Warrior King the same opportunity, he would surely accept."

Isabella leapt to the top of a rock. "Never!"

Hera looked up with a cold detachment. "I thought this would be pleasurable, but I find that I'm growing bored." She swept a hand out. Twisting, snaking lightning came from the hand, but it was not like any lightning Isabella had ever seen before.

It was black lightning.

Instead of a bolt of light and heat, it was an undulating void, as dark as night - as dark as eternal death.

Hera swept the black lightning across the rock beneath her feet. It effortlessly sliced a smooth-edged void through the rock. The remaining part she stood atop collapsed onto the half below. Trees behind her for a good distance, severed in the same way, by the same black bolt, crashed to the ground in a roar of thunder.

Isabella lost her footing and toppled backward onto the steep slope, tumbling down the hill. She threw her arms out to stop herself when she hit the flat at the bottom, and immediately rolled over to her back. She looked up and gasped.

Hera was standing right over her, her sword held high in both hands. By where she was looking, she knew she intended on slicing through her heart. Hera knew that Isabella was no longer an immortal, she could smell it.

Hera's knuckles were white with effort; there was a white glow in the gloomy light.

Just as Hera thrust her blade into Isabella's abdomen, with all her force, Isabella drove her gladius into Hera, just under her ribs. When the tip severed her spine, coming out her back between her shoulder blades, she went slightly limp. Only Isabella's sword and strength held her upright.

Hera's mouth dropped open in a gasp. Her sword fell, sticking in the ground to the side of her. Her wide, pale eyes stared down at her.

Isabella winced as she rose to her feet and pulled her sword from Hera's body, sending her toppling to the ground. Her arms twitched in an uncoordinated manner. Terror filled her eyes for a brief moment, and when she tried to speak, blood frothed at her mouth.

Hera observed the sky above them, noticing the dark clouds and the roar of thunder that soon accompanied their presence. She smiled, and finally mustered up the strength to mumble, "I will not go unavenged."

There was an earsplitting crack from the heavens, like a lighting strike, but instead of a flash of light, a ripple of total darkness swept through the land.

Hera began to laugh, sputtering blood from her lips. "I will not go unavenged. I will not go unavenged."

Another crack, the heavens opened once more, but Isabella grew inpatient, feeling the pain from her wound sending signals to her body, weakening her with every wasted moment. She finally raised her sword high above her head, ready to end all the suffering, hate, and vengeance that brewed within the woman at laid her feet.

Energy gathered within the clouds. Zeus summoned all of his rage, power and strength into one single blow. He crafted it skillfully, aimed his masterpiece, and fired it in the name of his fallen wife.

As Isabella began thrust the sword downward, she was ferociously hit.

There was a blinding light. It was as if the sun had disappeared and the earth was crumbling beneath her feet. She was flattened to the ground, fighting through panic. Holding her breath, she heard another clap, another flood of blinding light. She could see nothing at all with her face pressed downward, but everything sounded so silent. Deathly silent.

For a few moments, she waited for the light to fade, closing her eyes, counting the moments as they went by in her head for the next time she would open them up again to raise her head. When she finally did raise her head, the light was gone, and she could finally see clearly. Staring out, she spotted a dark hole where the blast had struck.

She was turned up quickly by the man beside her, his fingers clasped around her arm.

"I'm gettin' far too old fer this shit, Missy," Barbossa growled as he lifted himself to his feet, taking her up in his arms as he did so.

"Hector?" she said with an incredulous smile, feeling rather faint as she found her arms reaching out to embrace him.

As Isabella's hands clasped around Barbossa's waist, her breath escaped her. Noticing the sudden change in her body, Barbossa quickly caught her with a steady, strong arm before she could tumble to the ground.

"M'lady, haven't quite adapted to your land legs yet, have you?" Barbossa laughed, lifting Isabella's body into his arms. "No need ta fret. That's what ye get fer bein' a bloody showoff!"

As he commenced his climb up the hill from whence he came, he began to notice the limpness of her form, along with the copious amount of blood that began to stain her armor with no sign of stopping. Feeling rather remorseful for chiding her just seconds earlier, he began to murmur to her silently. "Forgive me, lass, for not comin' any sooner. I'll be putting you in capable hands before long. Don't you go givin' up on me now, you haven't lived this long to meet yer death just yet."

---

He stood still for long minutes, listening for any sound; any hint that there was life within the cavernous hole.

Looking up, he could see that there was no sign of daylight - no, the heavens were crying, choking the sun with a thick blanket of ominous clouds. Zeus' strike had missed its target and it appeared that his great remorse for such an act of rash judgment battered the earth relentlessly, without sign of stopping.

In the mound, Jordan made this way through until he found himself standing over the sprawled form of Hera, staring down at her smashed and bloody face.

He licked his lips, tasting the staleness of dry dirt.

What accompanied dirt was the taste of blood in his own mouth; he spat, and put a hand on the wetness on his face, more blood, coming from his nose. More injuries by her hand.

And now, he could end it all.

He had the upper hand.

Isabella's gladuis protruded from Hera's abdomen, unharmed, and glowing. Placing a hand on the gladius' hilt, he extracted the blade slowly, doing more damage. The pain caused the goddess to wince herself to consciousness again. How she managed to survive such a blast from the heavens was still a mystery to him, Zeus' attack should have reduced her body to ashes.

After a moment of eyeing her cautiously, he stepped on her arms with the flat of his boots, allowing her minimal movement, if she still were able to move at all.

That was when he heard small chuckles escape her lips, though muffled by gurgling sound; she continued to laugh, showing her bloodstained teeth proudly as she did so.

"Warrior King … have you come to claim your title?"

He stood over her and brought the gladius back in a two-handed grip, putting everything he had into the downswing. The blade bit into her neck, down to the spine, and caught onto the bone.

Hera stared up at him with blood streaming down her neck. Jordan swung another chop, and she watched him do it. He had to struggle to get the blade out of her spine, and she still blinked up at him.

But if he didn't finish her, she'd heal with time, and come back to haunt humanity once more.

Jordan brought the blade down one last time and felt the last edge of bone give. The blade went out the other side, and her head slid off her shoulders in a spray of blood like a black fountain.

The Warrior King grimaced as the blood that poured from her neck produced serpents. He spat his own blood at them, and they shivered and hissed, cowering at his feet as he walked away to join the others at the top of the hill.

---

The surface of the ocean, as the sun declined, broke into gold ripples, deepening gradually into carmine and vermilion. The horizon became illuminated with a soft mist - a bridge of visible sunbeams on pointed shining piers reaching the tips of the sea's gentle crests.

Darkness descended quickly as soon as the sun settled beyond the horizon. The passageway and open deck of the _Black Pearl_ were completely deserted; the whole ship strangely quiet, an unusual trait for the illustrious vessel.

One would think that the hull of pirate ship was filled with at least a dozen wooden casks brimming with gold, shouts and laughter from a crew of bloody scalawags, and at least five more barrels of rum per barrel of gun powder. But silence?

A pirate ship was never filled with silence.

He boarded at the waterline and moved quickly through the bowels of the ship, catching a stale odor along the way, though he paid it no mind, for he was already familiar with the odd smell that filled the lower decks of the _Black Pearl_. In fact, the odor carried him back to his evening in the brig, before he escaped.

Climbing a stairway, he finally reached the open deck, and welcomed the fresh air as he moved to slide his fingers over the _Pearl_'s rail; what an oddly familiar sensation it was.

For a moment, he felt a cold turn in his gut, he knew the duty he needed to carry out, yet he hesitated for a moment, looking out toward the open ocean for comfort before continuing on to the great cabin just ahead.

From what he could tell, a single candle lit the room, yet there was no movement. No life. Being dead gave him a different perspective on the living.

Touch faded as his sensations dissolved into nothing, and he slowly began to dislike his own smell.

He missed the little things, really. The way food tasted; how after taking a bite of a peach, the nectar would seep into the corners of his mouth.

The gentle voice of Elizabeth, waking him from a glorious night of sleep.

He would trade the company of a million souls; throw away the wind of knowledge he craved, and the peace he cherished, to speak with her and be in her presence again.

"Night, my beloved, night, only then does the world fade and all the terrible little beasties come to life. Even the dead, so it seems." From where Will was standing, he could smell stale rum on the intruder's breath. "Now, if it isn't the _captain_ of _The Flying Dutchman_. In the flesh, aye?" Wriggling his fingers, Jack corrected himself. "Figuratively speaking, of course. Funny thing this is - you and I - meeting like this, _again_."

William Turner stood like a figure of such dignity and severe reserve as he scanned the slowly nearing face of his former associate; Jack Sparrow appeared before him from the shadows. At any other time or place, he would have rejoiced at the thought of seeing his old friend.

"I didn't know I was coming here. The ship … she travels with a mind of her own, as if she were the one called to duty, while I'm just the unfortunate messenger boy caught in between." Will frowned. "I guess I just haven't learned my way around her yet."

Will's eyes faltered, his thoughts were merged between the devotion to his duties and the impulse of passionate loyalty which had supervened on the panic and physical pain he had gone through. Even though he had just started his ten year term at the helm of the _Dutchman_, he couldn't stop imagining how happy Elizabeth would be to see him, fantasizing of how her feelings would be so warmed by his arrival that it would place her closer to anxiety than she had been during his ten year absence.

Jack slowly began circling Will, one wobbly foot after another, until he was finally occupying the space between Will and the door. "And your father? Basking in the glory of your rather untimely reunion?"

"Yes, he's fine, finally. We are together again and he's forever free from his debt. What more could a man ask for?" Will asked rhetorically, forcing a smile. He took a moment to muster the proper words for what he had to say next. "I never got the chance to say this to you, but thank you, Jack, for what you've done for us. And for what it's worth, you were right about him."

Jack raised his tankard. "Let us drink, then, to the spirit of valor and bravery that made a strange Heaven out of unbelievable Hell."

"No, Jack," Will began seriously. "I'm not here for that. One thing this fate has taught me, above all else, is that there is no easy walk to freedom anywhere, and many of us will have to pass through Hell again and again before we reach our destination. Death is no more than jumping from one ship to another. But there's a big difference for me, as you know."

An awkward silence fell between them for a few short moments.

In an attempted to broach the reason he had come, Jack licked his lips and said, in as firm of a voice as he could assume - yet its steadiness did not conceal the agony that shook his heart, "What are you doing here? Inane chit-chat was never your forte, William."

It was his duty to tell him, thought it was a terrible thing for him to do, and it never got any easier over time. "She's dying, Jack," he finally said in a small voice.

True enough, Isabella had gradually gotten worse over the course of their voyage, and Jack was afraid to see her. He knew, and she knew, that she was dying, but he kept up a pretence of cheerfulness that would crumble just as soon as she glided her hand beneath her bedclothes, over the wound on her upper abdomen, wincing at the pain it caused her.

She would look up at him out of her agony and lay there for a long minute, perfectly motionless, until a cold fear seized him, thinking that she had passed on in his arms.

He had never had to care for someone who was dying, but he wanted to help her; to be with her as her end drew near. So he sat with her – sometimes he didn't even have to speak.

She was dying and he would lose her; she was dying, and he felt as though his life would end.

He recognized it as a foolish thought. Certainly it was no breakthrough in human judgment. Nobody wanted to die, but as he lingered over memories of those close to him who were no longer living, he could not help but wonder where they were then.

Where she would go.

Jack's eyes didn't waiver from Will's, and not a movement came from him for a time, until his eyes shifted to his feet. Jack finally whispered, "She's not dead yet."

"She has a choice," Will interrupted, taking a step forward to remove Jack from his path. "Just like everyone else."

Jack eyes flared, he inflated his chest as he pushed Will back to where he previously stood. "You'll not lay a hand on her."

"Destiny is no matter of chance. It is a matter of choice," Will reproached. "You cannot make her choices for her, Jack. If she chooses to forestall her judgment, then that is her path to walk, not yours."

"Destiny is a fine thing to accept when it's going your way, so it seems. When it isn't, I wouldn't call it destiny; I'd call it treachery, or bad bloody luck, if you ask me," Jack said, then his eyes sudden grew cold. "'Sides, she is not yours to care for."

"Jack Sparrow? Care for anyone else but himself?" Will said incredulously. "I never thought I'd see the day!" Will paused for a moment, licking his lips as he took it all into consideration. Never had he seen Jack in such a state. "You _love_ her, don't you-"

"Has your Nibbs ever spoken to you of one Doctor Gray?" Jack cut in.

"Doctor Gray?" Will thought for a moment. "Doctor Madeline Gray? In Port Royal?"

"Aye, Maddie. She's the one."

Will pondered the name for a moment, instantly recalling Elizabeth touching upon her friendship with Madeline here and there. Madeline was the medical director of the hospital that rested along the cliffs of Port Royal, which turned out to be one of the best and most beautiful practices in the Caribbean, housing a variety of patients.

One thing was for certain, Madeline was a damn good physician and if there were a life in jeopardy, she'd surely be the one saving it.

After several long moments of reflection on the matter, Will finally asked, "And if she doesn't save her?"

"Then I will not stand in your way." Jack held up his arms in a gesture of defeat.

"If this is the path that you choose, then there is one thing you must do for me." Jack lifted his brow at William's change of tone. "You didn't forget our talk about leverage, did you, Jack?"

Jack threw his head back, swallowing the last bit of rum from his bottle. "In these negotiations, if we have our own trump cards, we use them." Jack smirked. Maddie was certainly a fine trump, indeed. "Your terms, my dear William?"

"I need you to watch over her."

"Watch over whom, exactly?" Jack wondered.

"Elizabeth."

Bloody wish he'd never asked. Jack's spirit dropped and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end from the sound of her name. Grimacing, he thought, '_The infamous Captain Jack Sparrow, reduced to a watchdog? What do I look like? A bloody governess to misguided youths?'_

"What a twist of fate this is, William, is it not? You've come back to the dead to - _once again_ - save the very same damsel in distress," Jack said, twitching his nose at the thought as he held up an inquisitive finger. "Consider this: who in their right bloody mind would want to go near Mrs. Dutchman, herself? Bear in mind, she did _kill_ me to begin with! That notion's probably instilled fear in the hearts of some of the lowest blaggards around, mate."

"Jack, she's _alone_ in this world and she clearly has enemies." Jack smirked at that, but Will continued on, "Pirates around the world would be willing to take advantage of her because of the fact that I'm not there to protect her. I need you to make sure that she's making the right decisions … that she's safe, more than anything. You have no idea what it feels like to be in this position. Away from someone you love so dearly…"

Jack thought of the woman that was slowly dying just beyond the doors behind him. "I don't suppose I wouldn't, now would I?" he responded coldly. "Your beloved is where fate placed her to be."

"And so is yours."

That one made Jack's insides crawl.

Will continued on. "Elizabeth's taken a liking to you, Jack. Teach her what you can. You know, once she said that you told her you both were very alike."

Jack snorted. "I said that? Doesn't sound like me. With reverence to your charming murderess, I must say that there isn't enough treasure in this world to make me want to share a damn _room_ with her, let alone a _ship_," he spat.

"I miss her, Jack. I miss her so much that part of me still feels my heart pounding for her. Now I know what you meant when you said that 'death has a way of reshuffling one's priorities…'"

"I said that too, didn't I?" Jack winced, suddenly wishing he had more rum.

"There are no hard feelings, Jack. This is where I belong now and I can only go so far. She needs someone in her life, for now," Will's voice faded for a moment, sounding almost defeated. "Do this favor for me, Jack, and I will leave you for this night."

'_You've got the wrong person, mate,_' he began to protest in his mind, turning toward the great cabin. He regarded the light inside, beside it, Bella would be resting or - even worse - dying, and every second he wasn't by her side was wasted.

After a few moments of recollecting his thoughts, he looked back at Will, realizing that whatever assistance he would be able to provide for Lizzie would probably be close to none at all, seeing that the woman could clearly take care of herself.

If all else fails, he could haul her off to Teague. The old man would be itching to teach someone the Code by then. He'd take her in under his wing, and by the time he was done, William would be back to claim her, and he could wash his hands of them all.

Will extended his hand, breaking the silence. "Do we have an accord?"

Jack sighed. _Bargain ten years away to Elizabeth to protect Bella? _

Bloody hell. Why not?

Finally accepting what he had to do, Jack took The Ferryman's hand, sealing the accord before his own destiny could drag him.

---

**A/N**: Be prepared for a special guest appearance in Chapter 34 ;)

Nytd, thank you as always! You're fantastic.


	34. One for Death

**A/N: It's taken me a few years, but I've finally finished my final chapter to this fic. I'd like to thank my wonderful beta, Nytd, for all of her support and for loaning me one of her most wonderful O/Cs for this tale. I'd also like to thank her for taking me on as a completely _new_ writer who had a lot to learn with their very _first_ multi-chapter fan fiction. But, more importantly, I'd like to thank her for her friendship, which I hold very dear to my heart. I would not be where I am today without her.**

**I'd also like to thank all my readers and my crew at _The Black Pearl_ who have waited for me to finish this for way too long. You guys rock! **

**Enjoy!**

_**Chapter 34 – One for Death**_

The charts were accurate. Having discovered a sheltered cove tucked away behind the southern tail of Port Royal, the _Black Pearl_was able to stay below the horizon during the hours of daylight so as not to alert the Royal Navy.

He heard the splash of the lead, then moments later, the whisper from the bows. Barbossa was taking the sounding himself, trusting no other with the vital task, and having no trouble deciphering the breaking surf with almost no light to guide him.

"Steady now, lads," Barbossa told the rowers softly, and then, as he felt the stern start to lift on the next swell, he said, "Heave away!" The crest burst all around them, but the longboat raced in the creaming waters until suddenly, she ran onto the sand.

Barbossa was the first to leap out waist deep, holding his pistol as he waded ashore. Jack followed shortly after, holding Isabella's limp body close to his chest, traveling slowly so as to not cause her pain. Behind them, the rowers took the longboat out into deeper waters beyond the surf-line to await their return.

They halted above the high-water mark. "She all right?" Barbossa asked as he reprimed his pistol. The long row to the beach and wading through the surf would have given the sea-water ample opportunity to degrade the priming, he wagered.

"Unwilling to roll over and surrender just yet, I reckon." Jack flashed a crooked smile. "You take the lead," he ordered then, and on any other day, Barbossa would have taken offense to that. However, time was of the essence.

The ground was open, devoid of any shrub or sea grass. The nests of sea birds were set so close together on the coral sand that there was scarcely space to step between them, and the bird's backs were sooty black, which made them almost invisible.

Barbossa led him on at a faster pace, keeping in the cover of the grove but just above the white coral sands of the beach. Within half an hour Barbossa had stopped again, and pointed ahead to a large white building that was constructed masterfully upon a cliff overlooking the ocean. "There she be. No mistakin' her."

There were no clear-cut paths to the hospital's location; just slippery roots, dense bushes, weeds and plants. Deciding to travel alongside a small stream which entered the bay, Jack and Barbossa advanced with much toil through the dense jungle along its banks. The scenery changed as they climbed higher; the smell of moist vegetation grew more potent as frogs went croaking through the spongy masses of a nearby marsh, and grasshoppers chirruped on the land. But these forms of life were few and far between compared to the huge trees and tangled heaps of ferns and reeds which covered the whole ground.

Barbossa suddenly felt a rush of emotions coursing through his body.

_May._

It had been twelve years since their last encounter, astonished by the memories of what had once been, and of the long years when he had dreamed about her. Eagerness turned into anticipation, and then quickly into apprehension as it all came flowing back, taking him by surprise. What if he had come back with great joy of seeing her again, only to find that she had looked forward with dread to his return? Shivering when he finally laid hands upon her soft flesh? Giving all she had if only he would not kiss her?

What if he was no longer the object of her desires? Mayhap, she had found another?

As thoughts of the events to come clouded his mind, Barbossa had not realized he had come to a complete stop amidst the brush. His muscles grew tense as the moments passed, eyes fixated at nothing in particular in the distance.

"What are you waiting for, Hector? Courage? After all these years, it's not bloody coming you know," Jack said sarcastically as he stopped beside him, running his eyes along the landscape ahead. He wondered for a moment if Barbossa had stopped due to a secret fear of wild quails.

As they pressed on, the ground became littered with fallen palm fronds, dry and noisy underfoot, especially when they couldn't see their feet to begin with. Jack had no choice but to rely on Barbossa to steer him through the hazard.

Barbossa growled at Jack's intrusion, but both pirates quickly became aware of the faint odor of smoke from the nearby fort's cooking-fires. Soldiers of the Royal Navy we distracted by their suppers – an opportune time to move. Nodding, they went on without another word.

Eventually, they could see the moon's silver radiance as they cleared the trees; the home that they were looking for was just up ahead.

"Jack, ye'll stay here," Barbossa whispered. "Twould be best to not draw attention to ourselves-"

"No." The reply rolled off his tongue quite naturally.

"There'll be no arguing from the likes of you," Barbossa said firmly. "You and the lass will stay here, and out of harm's way iffen I was to be discovered. And in light of our current predicament, she 'as a better chance of survival if ye stay put."

"As _captain_I highly resent …" Before Jack could place his words of protest in order, Barbossa rose quietly and in seconds, had disappeared, leaving Jack alone with Bella at the edge of the forest.

Jack wasn't afraid any longer, too angry for any of that. Looking down at Bella, he fumed as wasted moments passed in the brush. "I cannot - _will not_- sit here like a bloody useless swab..."

"**Impugning our authority as captain in front of our lady, as it were."**

"_Can't blame him."_

"And why is that, pray tell?" Jack asked, with a measure of annoyance.

"**No doubt he is attempting to make up for something in which he is lacking."**

"_Let's face it, fleshy, traveling just isn't as much fun when all the historical sites in the seven seas are younger than you are. Poor ol' codger's just trying to find a way to keep his sanity! "_

Jack took a moment to rub the bridge of his nose in frustration as the voices in his mind began to giggle uncontrollably. "I can't believe we're having this conversation."

The sea never rewarded those who were too anxious, too greedy, or too impatient. He finally realized that waiting was actually quite painful when in dire need. Forgetting it all happened would probably be even more painful, but not knowing which to do is the worst kind of suffering.

"**I've got one!"**

"_Gained a sense of humor, have we? Let's hear it, now! Can't resist a good laugh, mate."_

"**When you are young, you want to be the master of your fate and the captain of your soul. When you are older, you will settle for being the master of your weight and the captain of losing your hair."**

Another wave of laughter filled his ear, and his patience was running dangerously thin.

"_How much did the pirate pay for his peg-leg and hook? _

"**An arm and a leg?"**

"Oh, bloody hell…" Jack moaned. "Enough! Now, lads, let us make the best of this situation before _we_ finally slip into irreversible insanity."

'_Too late!' _They wanted to exclaim, but both voices quieted down as Jack held Bella closer to his body.

"**You know, an impossible problem, such as this one, can be solved when we see that the problem was actually only a hard decision waiting to be made, mate."**

He steeled himself. "Best we get moving then, the ol' cur might lose himself on the way there, right, Bella?"

Thus, as to not attract attention to himself, Jack decided that it would be wise to not follow the same path Barbossa had taken. Circling around the area, Jack's familiarity of the road ahead came from experience, namely the many times he had to 'slip away' from the Royal Navy, so to speak. He reckoned he had a better idea of the ground ahead compared to Barbossa, when it came down to not being found.

Bright moonlight reflected off the pale battlements of the fort in the distance. The moon was above the trees by the time he reached the path leading up to May's small home, his eyes adjusted as his arms closed around Isabella's body. He pulled her to him, binding her body against him as if he would absorb her into his very being. As he moved forward, the shadows casted from the human corpses that hung suspended from a series of crude gallows were weird and disturbing in the moonlight.

He felt a chill of superstitious dread, as if fate was warning him to tread lightly.

Wouldn't be the first time.

Within moments, he found himself walking by a small, but meticulously kept, garden adjacent to the rear of the house, and to Jack's surprise, Barbossa was nowhere in sight. Jack softly called out his name and there was no answer. His voice sounded lone and hollow in the emptiness and silence. Feeling his arms buckle from the weight of Isabella's body, he sat beside several bushes of multi-colored begonias.

"Heavier than I thought you were, love," he breathed, catching the sweat from his brow on the edge of his sleeve.

'_I have enough cotton in my mouth to knit meself a new frockcoat__,' he thought as his head slowly reclined backward against the house. _

A few quiet moments elapsed - more time wasted. Jack mustered up his strength and lifted Isabella comfortably into his arms to make way around the perimeter of the house. He had a quick look through a window into, what appeared to have been, a sitting room, and saw no one. Jack managed his way around the northwest corner of house to peer into another window – the kitchen. No one in there either. No disturbances, no forced entry, and no way Barbossa would have strolled right up to the front door to ring the bell in proper fashion.

Jack turned back and started to retrace his steps. On the eastern side, the moonlight played full upon the siding, a lone window remained open, and the preposterous idea finally hit him.

He would climb through it!

* * *

Inside the house all was still, except if the faint ticking of the clock in the hall was to be counted as it closed upon midnight. Moonlight streamed through the open window and past the gossamer curtains, along with the soft night breeze that billowed them gently. A high thin cloud crossed the moon, casting a fleeting shadow on the face of the woman asleep in the bedroom as it passed.

A moment later, another shadow fell upon the sleeping figure, but this one came from the window and grew larger, casting her entire form in darkness as a tall, silent figure crept closer to the bed. A floorboard creaked under his weight and he froze, watching for any sign that the woman might have stirred. Not even her breathing changed, and he risked the final few steps to her bedside, gazing down upon a face he'd not seen in over a decade.

Barbossa stood there longer than he should have, emotions he was unaccustomed to dealing with vying for control as he wondered and dreaded simultaneously how she was going to react. While he would have like another moment to gather up his courage, he was afforded none when she stirred at last, her subconscious telling her that all was not right in the house as the shadow of the Pirate Lord loomed over her.

Even before her eyes were completely open, one hand had pinned her arm to the bed, and the other had clamped down across her mouth harder than he meant to in order to stifle the scream she was already drawing breath for. Her eyes were wide with terror, and warding off his guilt with the thought that he'd had no other choice; he spoke softly to her to try to quell her alarm.

"May," was all he could manage, but it was enough and he felt her relinquish her struggle and sink back against the pillow. Slowly, once he could see incredulous recognition dawn in her eyes, he released his hold on her arm and then her mouth, knowing that he needn't fear her screaming by that point.

"Hector?" she asked in a whisper made breathless by her fright of seconds before.

"Aye, lass," he said, lowering himself to sit on the very edge of her bed. He braced himself mentally, not knowing how she would react to his presence after an absence of so many years. Would she strike at him, yell at him, push him away? There were so many things he wanted to tell her and needed to explain to her…

The next thing he knew she had thrown herself off her pillow and flung her arms about him, crushing herself against his chest with her soft pale cheek pressed against his scarred one. For long moments he debated what he should say first, but the way she held him and let go a shuddering sigh of relief told him there really wasn't anything that needed to be said just now.

A long moment later, she pulled back enough to gaze into his eyes, while neither of them knew just what to say.

"I thought you were dead," she whispered hoarsely at last, and it was apparent that great emotion lay under the surface of her simple statement.

"I know," he replied, brave enough at that point to reach out and touch her cheek, caressing her soft skin lightly and pleased beyond words that she didn't pull away. It gave him the courage to slip his fingers under her chin and draw her face closer, and a thrill coursed through him as she still held her ground. He moved a fraction of an inch closer, his intense gaze still upon her eyes, and when it was quite obvious that she was willing, he drew her in closer and pressed his lips against hers, tenderly claiming the kiss he'd longed to have from her for well over ten years.

Gently he pulled away and tried to offer some word of explanation to her, however inadequate it would certainly prove to be. "Madeline, I've not time to account fer all that's happened since last I saw ye," he began.

"Then don't waste your time explaining right now," she said tenderly. "I know how dangerous it is for you to be here."

And with that he found himself drawing her in again, the unspoken emotions of the moment translating into a deep, passionate kiss that he would have lingered over much longer, had it not been for someone pointedly clearing their throat at the window.

"Bloody hell, Barbossa!" Jack whispered urgently, causing the two to pull apart and glance at the figure in the window. "You've waited this long to bed your bonny doctor; surely you can wait another hour or two!"

Barbossa stood up abruptly at the side of Madeline's bed, while she quickly gathered her dressing gown from the post at the foot of the bed and shrugged herself into it. "It'd hardly be the first thing I'd do after not seeing her for so many years," Barbossa snarled indignantly.

"True, but it might be the second," Sparrow replied wryly from the window. "Time's a-wasting, Hector, and she might not have much left," he added soberly.

"She? She who?" Madeline asked, obviously concerned.

Barbossa took her gently by the arms and spoke in earnest. "We've come fer help, lass, and hope that the _Pearl_was swift enough to get us here in time. We've a wounded woman with us…"

"Wounded? When? How badly?" Madeline asked in rapid succession. "Where is she?"

"Here," Jack replied from the window, holding up Bella's limp form for Madeline to see.

"Oh God! Bring her to the door quickly!" Madeline pointed left to indicate the direction of the door. "Hurry, before you're seen." Quickly she ran for the door, opened it, and ushered Jack back towards the bedroom.

"Lay her there," she said, pointing to her own bed, and Jack did as he was instructed, placing Bella as gently as he could upon the pillow. "I'll need light," she said quickly, addressing Barbossa as she rushed from the room. She was back in a few moments, and the Pirate Lord had already lit every lamp and candle in the room, having taken a moment first to close the window and draw the heavy curtains across the lighter ones.

"Where is she…" Madeline trailed off as she looked into the now-lit face of the pirate who had brought the wounded woman in, and stared at him for a long moment, trying to place why he looked so familiar. Recognition came at last just as Barbossa made the introduction.

"Madeline, this be Jack Sparrow…Jack, this is…"

"Guinevere," Jack replied with a rakish but tired smile. "Aye, the doctor and I have met before."

He ignored the unhappy look that Barbossa shot him and answered the doctor's question. "Here," he said quietly, pulling back his own frockcoat, which he had laid over Bella to keep her warm as he carried her through the stillness of the Port Royal night.

The look of unpleasant surprise at seeing the blood seeping through the makeshift bandage wrapped around Bella's abdomen lasted only a moment, and then Madeline regained herself and went to work, going over the woman from head to toe and then glancing back up at the two pirates who waited in silence nearby.

"This woman has lost a lot of blood," she said softly, and each nodded solemnly, knowing what she said was true. She returned to the bandage and cut it loose, keeping pressure over the red stain that had seeped through. Slowly she peeled back the gauze and evaluated the gash before her.

"This is a blade wound?" she asked, knowing already that it likely was.

"Aye, lass," Barbossa replied, "and not just any blade, but the blade of a heathen goddess who makes Calypso look like a two-bit conjuring witch."

Madeline frowned in askance as Jack groaned softly.

"Did you have to say that out loud? She might 'ave heard you, you know," he admonished Barbossa, who merely rolled his eyes at Jack's concern.

"'Tis a long story," Barbossa said, addressing the lady doctor, "and one that needs to wait fer when we have more time. Can ye help her?" he asked, nodding at Bella's still form on the bed.

"I shall try," Madeline replied, her tone grave but not dismal. "This wound has been cleaned well and I shall repair it, but as for what happens within…that will be up to her," the doctor replied. "Only a little time will tell."

"Time is what we don't have, Maddie," Jack said, and Barbossa nodded in rare agreement with the other captain. "The _Pearl's_hidden in a cove about two miles west of here, but she can't stay there indefinitely. And if either of us were found here…"

"'Twould be ruinous fer all in this room," Barbossa finished, knowing that Madeline was in danger for aiding not only known pirates, but Pirate Lords.

"Then you must leave her with me," Madeline said, "and flee Port Royal."

"I won't leave until I know her fate," Jack replied in way that left no room for argument.

"We should know within the next few days whether she will live or die," Madeline replied. "If you were to return to the ship, it would be safer for you both, as well as your crew, but perhaps I can signal you from the hospital up on the cliff."

"Are you taking her there?" Jack asked, but the doctor was already shaking her head.

"It's too dangerous to move her right now. She'll be well looked-after here, I promise you."

"If we take the _Pea_r_l_beyond the horizon by day, and return within sight of land by night, May would be able to signal us by lantern," Barbossa interjected. "As long as there be two lanterns lit in the windows, we'll know she yet survives."

"And one…" Jack said distantly, meeting Madeline's gaze meaningfully. He didn't need to finish in order for all of them to understand the significance of a single light.

* * *

By day, the _Black Pearl_ receded under the blue horizon, disappearing completely out of sight. _The ship_ rose and fell on waves of spun glass. The _sails_ busted, and the clouds broke against her as if they were burned away like a cloth ignited.

The weather came in fair, a fine blue sky made interesting with a display of passing clouds. The clouds occasionally blocked the sun and caused the air to feel cool and inviting.

The ship's approach to Port Royal on the second day of waiting caused the crew to stir in great anticipation of what lay ahead.

Most tried to make light of the situation, and talked amongst themselves about home, places they had been, and their prospects out West once they received word of Bella and her men.

The crew had once again set to work on repairing the _Pearl_after the great battle. Cotton busied himself by fashioning and nailing thick wooden staves around the deep cracks where mast joints had separated. However, Cotton was no carpenter; there was little else they could do until they reached port, so the remedy could only promise to prevent further damage.

Pintel and Ragetti had discovered that the mainmast was badly cracked about a foot below the hounds the day they set sail to Port Royal. Such damage meant that the entire rig might not hold up in heavy weather. Ragetti went aloft himself to inspect the mast, and assured Barbossa that it could be repaired as well. They hoped the gales off the coast would not give them too much cause to be concerned, even though the winter months were approaching.

In addition to the uneasiness concerning the mainmast, the trade winds seemed to have been coming from the northeast rather than from the southerly quarter. Although the wind tended to blow in any given direction at any given time, Barbossa estimated that the fair wind was just over the horizon. With the ship sailing well, close-hauled though she was, he suppressed the natural urge to change course and chase it.

As Barbossa found avenues to occupy his time on the main deck with the crew, Jack had kept his troubles to himself, but all day long the same thoughts kept gnawing at his heart. Sometimes in the evening he was able to drive it away to sleep for a few hours, but it was sure to return in the morning.

For two days, Jack took his position at the helm, leading gave him a great sense of purpose. He used the churning sea to melt his worries, his fears, and his concerns. He put his thoughts of all the problems away, let his mind hunt for peace, let it wander where it would.

The _Pearl _had never sailed so beautifully. Even with the substantial damage that she had endured, she still possessed her aggressive nature. With her captain to steer her, she was a beast untamed, a creature of the dark.

As the sun began to disappear beneath the horizon, Jack set his sights on Port Royal. Silently, he cursed the wind for not carrying him fast enough. Tonight he would know her fate; his gut assured him of that.

* * *

Strange, aerial music fluted out of darkness, over her slow-wakening senses swept the great waves of symphonic orchestration. Fiend-voices, beautiful and sleep-loud, called down through shadows and formed a bright light, developing the thread of ancient memory.

Staggering blindly in the whitewashed glare, his eyes, sleep corded, opened slowly as he was born anew, cut from obscurity.

The cool air, charged with blue starlight, shocked her body into wakefulness, and a strange ringing in her ears persisted. She listened to his movements, to his footsteps, heard from afar the winking flicker of lamps, and saw his shadow forming in front of her sea-sunk eyes.

The sound of his heart was of a solemn music. It filled the air; it was not loud, but it was omnipresent. It spoke to her of death, but with faint strings of enlightenment; of the focal march of all who lived or had lived, converging on a plane, as if the world was filled with silent marching men and no words were to be spoken.

A voice, loud and forever far, spoke.

"James."

He ceased, continued without speaking, descending gently to her side.

Hot bands of light streamed murkily from the doors and windows of the room as he smiled brightly and said, "My God, Isabella, you look as if you'd seen a ghost!"

"You look as if you feel no pain," she said, raising a hand to his cheek. "The last time I saw you… you could have died because of me."

The ghost of a frown crossed over his face. "My lady, I do not feel pain any longer…" he interrupted, taking her hand in his. "I have joined Ares…"

Isabella jerked away, wincing at the pain that the sudden movement. "James," she scolded softly, daring not to spare the energy to draw another breath.

James felt her pain, and gritted his teeth, fighting it with muscled hardened to stone from the strain. And he hadn't even touched the pain of her wound yet. First, he had to deal with the pain of her visions, get past them, before he could cope with that problem.

Agony sucked his mind into a river of blackness as he looked into her eyes. Specters of her visions swirled past until he finally saw the images of his final moments, and the pain of their reality was all too vivid. Tears flooded from his tightly closed eyes; his whole body shook as he struggled to fight through the torrent of anguish. He knew he couldn't allow himself to be pulled along with it, or he would be lost, consumed.

The emotion of her visions buffeted him as he was swept deeper into her mind. Dark thoughts just beyond the surface of perception clawed at his will, trying to drag him into the depths of hopeless abandon. His own painful memories washed to the surface of his consciousness. Only his patience and resolve kept his sanity, his free will, from being pulled into the bottomless waters of grief.

She turned away from him, noticing his pain. "Ares' silence was beginning to concern me."

"It shouldn't have," he insisted, intensifying the grip on her hand for a moment. "His plan was clear and concise."

"To you, yes, but he didn't alert us that his protection _ended_ at the front-lines. He _abandoned_us when we needed him most."

"Ares did _not_abandon us!" James took a deep breath, regaining his composer. "He made sure that someone was watching over us. I was grateful to be saved, so that I can continue to fight."

"I almost lost you, James!"

James grew silent. "Isabella-"

"So, now that you have fought these men, and feel no pain because of salvation, do you believe that having protection from Ares from the agonies of flesh would make it easier to defeat them?"

James hesitated, and then shook his head. "Their strength is their weakness. Ares believed that they did not shield themselves as they would if they feared the bite of a sword or the stab of an arrow, and thus, they are careless with their lives. It is true they can continue fighting long past when an ordinary man would have dropped dead and that is no small advantage in battle, but they also die in great numbers, because they do not protect themselves as they ought..."

Taking up one of her limp hands in his, he continued in a whisper, "As long as our spirits remain high, with the right tactics we can prevail against these laughing, monstrous gods. In their numb confidence, they will walk into our traps and peril we would go to great lengths to avoid." He smiled, flooding the room with a warm glow that countered that of the natural sun.

At last, he broke through to the calm, white light at the center of her being. James reveled in the comparatively mild pain of her life-threatening wound. Reality could seldom match the imagination, and in the imagination, the pain was real.

All around her calm center, the cold darkness of eternal night encroached on the waning warmth and light of her life. James rested his hand on her wound for a moment.

"And now, my lady, you will need to rest. I have used a good deal of your strength to put things right. Maybe a few days of bed rest, and you will be as good as new." He closed his fingers around hers, and gave her a kiss on her forehead. She accepted the peck with a smile.

As he brought himself to his feet, Bella began to feel the warm, tingling on her abdomen disappear, feeling a surge of raw energy course through her body.

Light began to flood the room once more. "James!" she exclaimed, attempting to sit up, miraculously with less pain than her previous attempts. _The_ pain had numbed, and all she felt was a bone-deep chill. That loss of pain _worried her__._ _Her b_ody should be screaming, but it seemed she became less aware of _her injuries_and her surroundings with each passing minute.

He stopped, but didn't look back.

"How did you get out?" she asked. "How did you find me?"

"Get out?" He paused for a moment, turning ever so slightly to look over his shoulder. His smile was brilliant. "I never left. And find you? Well, you shouldn't worry about that. I always will."

Bella awoke with the hot sun on her face and the sound of the waves pounding against the shore. When she blinked open her eyes, the orange rays of fading sunlight flooded through the open window of the small white room she found herself in. It was a beautiful sunset.

Where were her men? And more importantly, where was she?

* * *

Awaking suddenly, Bella pushed back several heavy blankets that covered her, eyes widening in fear, terrorized by the sharp recall of the battle. As her bare feet hit the ground, it seemed like every hair on her body stood on edge. The air was so _cold_.

Looking down she realized the origin of her predicament – someone had taken the liberty of relieving her of her clothing. In their place was a thin, lightweight sheet that came down to just above her knees. The garment hung loose against her body, as if it were meant for someone else, and had an opening in the back that was tied together by a few bits of string. It hardly offered enough warmth.

_What's this?_

She idly scratched away at a few patches of dry blood on the sheet's surface with her fingernail, forcing her memory to replay the events that caused her to be where she was.

Curious, Bella lifted the sheet and tucked it beneath her chin, leaving her body bare for examination. With great patience, she scanned her body with careful eyes and hands, running her fingers lightly along tight, goose pimpled skin.

A bruise _here_ – another _there_ – a scratch _there_ – bite mark on her breast – _Jack; _she smirked. Arms weak, back sore, palms scraped, lips dry, mouth dry, throat dry … all things that would heal with time. Then her fingers halted above a neatly sutured scar. Stitches and skin melded together, forming the most incredible pattern. She was obviously under the care of a skilled and knowledgeable individual.

She poked at the stitching once. No pain. Twice, this time even harder, and nothing. She rocked back and forth on her heels, moving her toes about with a smile.

After a few brief moments of relief, Bella's stomach growled. She thought about it, and decided that she could really go for a whale, with a side of horse.

A light shone from the crack under the door, and to Isabella's surprise, it swung open rather abruptly.

In came the shadow of a woman, in one hand she held a brightly lit lantern, in the other, a tray with a pitcher of water and a glass.

Their eyes met and they both stood unmoving.

"Oh, my…" the woman seemed more confused than frightened; she shut the door behind her quickly.

A smile danced across Bella's lips and a touch of rose fluttered upon her cheeks. "Hello, is that for me?"

Dumbfounded, May looked her over; eyes honing in on Bella's gruesome scar, which had completely healed in just a matter of days. "Fascinating," she finally managed, shaking off her astonishment. She extended the tray forward and Bella reached for the pitcher with both hands, drinking as if she hadn't had a drop of water in weeks.

Placing the second lantern on the windowsill, May quickly took to her duty. "Please come, lay down," she directed, hurrying Bella over to an examination table. She obeyed quickly and without question, looking quite content as she held on to her pitcher in the process.

With surgical scissors in hand, May lifted the hospital gown once more, and began to examine her wound in more detail.

Bella stared at the doctor's face, waiting for a chance to catch her eye again. The woman seemed practical, down-to-earth, and strong bodied with a commanding presence. "Are you the person I owe my life to?" Bella asked, making sure not to avert her eyes.

May finally looked at her curious patient and smiled. "I'm afraid I'm only one piece to your puzzle. In fact, it seems as though you owe your life to several people," she said simply, cutting the remaining sutures from her skin. "You and your men were on the verge of death when you arrived at my doorstep. You've all healed quite miraculously. May I ask you who you are? What happened?"

"Isabella," she replied, lowering her gown as she hopped off the examination table. "We were at war, but it's over now."

Bella extended her hand to May, "I owe you my life, and I promise to serve you in whatever way that I can in order to repay my debt, Miss…?"

"Gray. Madeline Gray," she smiled. "I have to admit, your condition had me for quite a scare. You know it's bad when Jack Sparrow shows up-"

"Jack Sparrow," Bella repeated skeptically.

The door cracked open, the squeak of the hinges alerted the women that their conversation was no longer private.

At first, they only saw a brown mop of unkempt hair appear through the sliver of light. A moment later, the face of a young, handsome man shyly peeked into the room. Bella's valiant lieutenant, Jordan Baxter, was alive, well, and curious to see the origin of the voices he had heard from out in the hallway.

"Doctor Gray? I heard a commotion, is everything-" His eyes went from May to Bella, and locked on her. Worry turned into joy as a grand smile appeared on his face. "Bella!"

They both moved forward for a long embrace. It required his greatest efforts to forbear giving, with his tears, indubitable signs of his affection.

As they parted, Bella pinched his arm, and said, "Didn't I teach you how to knock?" They both laughed. Jordan shrugged, and made a face in response to her scolding, obviously his own rebellious way of saying '_no_.'

Feeling as if she were intruding on the reunion, May decided to quietly slip out of Bella's room with a small smile. She had done her part in setting up the two lanterns visibly on the windowsill for the crew of the _Pearl_, and was certain that the good news would spread across the decks like wildfire.

As she left, she delicately closed the door behind her, feeling that the two might require a measure of privacy so that Jordan could reveal what great lengths the two Pirate Lords underwent in order to secure her safety. Furthermore, it was best for her nurses and staff not to know the origins of their mystery patient – let alone her affiliation with pirates.

"Thank you for everything," Bella said to him quietly. "I'm so sorry to have put you through all this."

He embraced her again, more closely. "Bella, I'm all right. Do not apologize to me, and it's finally all over," he reassured, giving her thoughts a sense of finality. "We are finally _free_of all this."

Her life's mission had come to an end. What would she do now? Her mind began to race; she had so many questions running through her mind. "How are you?" she asked at last, knowing that particular question had higher priority than all the others. She scanned him quickly. "Are you well? Madeline told me she had tended to the men as well."

Jordan held up his hands in protest. "Do not worry yourself of my injuries or those of those miscreants down the hall. They've been flirting with the nurses for the past two days. You, my lady, are our cause of concern. Who would have thought you'd be so much trouble?" he said with a laughed. "You need your rest, you've been through enough."

He was right, she was tired – excited, but tired nonetheless. Jordon led her to bed with a steady grip on her arm and watched as she tucked herself in. Satisfied, he turned to leave the room, only looking back to say, "I'll have one of the girls bring a plate of food for you later."

"If you lot haven't picked that poor kitchen to the bone yet," she replied jokingly. "I just hope it's a big one."

"I'll notify the cooks that you eat significantly more than we do, that should give them a whole new set of nightmares from here forth."

"Oh, and, Jordan," she called sleepily before he disappeared from sight. "I meant to ask Madeline before, but why are there two lanterns in my window?"

_Ah hah_! He had caught Bella at the opportune moment. Doctor Grey hadn't had enough time to tell her of their arrangements.

The wonderfully meticulous physician had done her part in briefing all of Bella's men in regards to her arrangement with Jack and Barbossa. Since then, Jordan had thoroughly thought through the dangers of Bella leading a life with a dangerous man, such as Jack Sparrow – who was eagerly looking for another willing partner to live the life of a renegade by his side. The choice would decidedly be a bad step for a woman who really needed and craved a healthy, meaningful relationship. After the ordeal Bella had just gone through, she needed a man beside her that wouldn't leave on a whim whenever the sea called out to him. She needed stability.

She was a strong woman — she needed a man of equal or greater strength. One who was sturdy, determined, not someone who would defer or shy away. She liked power, but she didn't desire it for herself, but rather wanted to align herself with it.

One thing that he learned about Bella throughout their years together was that if she ever felt overpowered, she wouldn't tremble, she'd fight. Such a personality could only pair themselves with someone who possessed confidence, passion, and conviction. All of those traits brought out the best in him; his self-assurance and competence. He was raised by a general, and she appreciated brawn and nerve. Courage.

In essence, he recognized that Bella had both a growl and a purr, forced to shoulder so much pain and loss while still maintaining a gentle side. He would not take that for granted; for she needed a man she could lean on sometimes. And although she was feisty and bossy, sometimes difficult, she was fair and just with love that was deep and enduring.

She was perfect for him and he realized with some surprise, that he was her match. The pride it fed him honed his strength and deepened his love.

He was a Warrior-King. Jack was nothing but a scoundrel, a traitor – a man who pierced her heart with his blade. Unworthy.

It was time for him to act in her best interest.

"Why, is this too much light for you, Bella?" he asked, trying to sound as oblivious to the significance of the lanterns as he possibly could.

"I think one would be sufficient in blinding me just as thoroughly." She chuckled softly, tucking herself just a little deeper under her blankets. "Or perhaps, none at all?"

Jordan wagged his finger as he approached the window. "No, no. One is needed just in case the good doctor needs to come in and check up on you again. I'll hear no fussing from you about it."

Staring at the flame for a brief moment as he bent down, his body trembled just a bit before blowing it out.

It dimmed the room significantly.

_Two for life, one for death. _The doctor's words silently repeated in his head; his heart pounding as he quickly made haste to leave Bella's room, yet he tried to appear as unaffected as he could. It felt like an eternity. "Sleep well," Jordan whispered as he closed the door to her room gently, feeling a small moment of relief that she didn't answer back.

He stood outside her door for quite a while, forehead lightly resting against its cool surface, spikes of guilt causing his stomach to flop.

_What had he done?_

Realizing that he had not thought his actions all the way though, Jordan was still unsure whether he was acting justly or not.

Holding out his fingers, he attempted to count the number of ways Bella would murder him if she were to find out what those lanterns really meant. Shaking his head, he decided that maybe his actions were just and that he had saved her from a life she surely would have loathed.

At that point, he decided how he would proceed. First, he needed to brief the men – Bella was alive, and the pirates had sailed off – leaving no significance to the lanterns any longer.

Secondly, as long as they were in Port Royal, the pirates could not come after them.

Leveraging himself against doorframe, he let out a deep breath, and placed his hand on the door.

"This is for the best, I promise."

* * *

The day had come to an end. The new-born night waited for its quickening darkness, stirring shadows of silence that were never known on the _Black Pearl_—the silence before the moonrise, calm at sea. Not a breath came from the dead air. Not a ripple stirred on the motionless water. Nothing changed but softly glowing light, nothing moved but the lazy mist, curling up to meet the moon on the eastward sea.

Although there were a few souls on deck, from stem to stern, silence possessed the vessel, as silence possessed the sea.

The man at the helm draped his arm over the tiller. Minute by minute, the darkness engulfed the _Pearl_, her dark beauty emanating within gloomy shadows.

Yawning, the man looked up at idle sails, gazed out at the sea on either side of him, and shook his head at the tranquility.

He began to walk in the direction of the rising moon until _Pearl's _black rail gently reminded him that he could not go any further. Between his jewel-adorned fingers, was a sea-worn frockcoat; he held it up to the rail, handling it delicately as he ran his fingers along the lightweight fabric.

Waiting was always the hardest part.

Even with all the anticipation swelling within him, as the _Pearl_approached the easterly side of the hospital, Jack was still too apprehensive to look, and found momentary comfort in the dark horizon.

Marty broke the silence up in the crow's nest. "Cap'n's!"

"Light in th' window there!" Pintel piped up excitedly, pointing upwards to confirm. The crew scrambled and soon found themselves hanging from the shrouds and over the rails, curious of the sighting.

"That's a good thing righ'?" Ragetti inquired with a great measure of concern. No matter how many times or how many crew members it took to explain the arrangements to Ragetti, he still got it wrong. Jack had noticed that Bella had taken a liking to the tall oaf and his diminutive counterpart – she had a 'thing' for the strange ones, or so he thought. So he dismissed Ragetti's forgetfulness, sympathized and found common ground; they both wanted the same thing – answers, and weren't particularly concerned with the logistics of how said answers were obtained.

"Aye, Master Ragetti!" Barbossa replied with enthusiasm. Fetching his spy-glass from the belt at his waist, he extended it, and pointed it out in the direction of the window.

Jack felt his stomach quiver and began playing the last few days over and over again in his mind: the battle, his visit from the Ferryman, and the wasted moments in Port Royal due to his own weakness...

Barbossa's mouth fell slightly agape; he lowered the spy-glass and looked again, thinking he might have pointed to another room in error.

There was only one lantern.

"She's goin' ta be alright, righ', Cap'n?" Ragetti asked again, his pleading eyes got to him.

Hector Barbossa was at a loss for words. '_May…_' he thought, lowering his head. '_Thank ye for tryin', lass._' Out of respect, he removed his hat, and many followed in suit.

Dumbfounded, Ragetti lowered his good eye to the ground, hoping that no one could see it swell with tears. "It must be a mistake," he muttered quietly to himself. Pintel placed a hand on his shoulder, attempting to comfort Ragetti as best he could.

The silence concerned him enough to tear his gaze off of the horizon. Jack turned and stared into eyes overcome with sadness and astonishment.

Another knot swelled in Jack's throat.

_She was gone_.

* * *

Never before had he been so frightened to be alone with his thoughts. The black bottomless hole that his life had become was terrifying. He had done and seen some terrible things in life, but nothing had so thoroughly unhinged him.

The emotions had raged back and forth between hatred and complete despair. One moment he was swearing to himself that nothing would stop him from avenging her death and making the bastards pay, and the next, his soul was weeping and he longed to just touch her face once more.

_He should have been able to make a difference._

Then came the inevitable – he blamed himself. He slept badly, ate little, and lost interest in all his customary pursuits. He was preoccupied with self-reproachful thoughts, during which he blamed himself for failing her. It was his lack of emotional steadiness, the ability to remove himself from the circumstances and think about things logically, that gave him great concern. If he couldn't get a hold on his emotions, he would fail.

In the end, his path had been dark and dreary, neither cheered by kindness nor hope. Perhaps he should become indifferent to her fate? Though the world would have pitied it more, the anguish would have been less enduring. But his affections would linger within him until the very end. Some would have called him a changed man.

"Changed, indeed." A small, empty laugh finally escaped his lips.

Jack had witnessed the torture of Bella's body, mind and soul throughout their journey, and couldn't begin to imagine an immortal lifetime of such anguish. Their parting was one of unchanged affection, but he was not by her side to watch her final, unbearable breath.

_Unforgivable. _

Instead, he had stood by like a powerless spectator. Right before his eyes, he beheld the hands of death drawing yet tighter around her, until she was crushed and trampled to the dust.

_Nothing could have saved her._

Standing at the very spot where he had heard the news, Jack held the sleeve of his frockcoat to his nose. Time stood still.

A hundred years from now, he'd recognize her scent. Apart from the blood, it was faint, but it was something of _hers_, no matter how minuscule.

Could there be sweet consolation in the hope that her freed spirit had finally found peace?

"Cap'n," called out a hesitant, yet familiar voice, interrupting his thoughts. He felt Gibbs' presence behind him, perhaps standing at arm's length. "We're ready to make way, sir."

Minutes that lasted forever went by and then it moved off, just as it had come, in a ripple of wind and tide.

"'_Except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone: but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit,_'" he quoted. "John 12:24 – what mum used to tell to me when dear ol' dad passed on." Jack heard Gibbs shifting his weight, causing the timbers of the _Pearl_ to creak beneath his feet.

"Don't tell me you were a holy man in your heyday, Mister Gibbs."

Gibbs' eyes canvassed the horizon. "Every man here seems to be on different tracks of thought, Cap'n."

"I'll not be one to put all my eggs in a one basket and count my blessings before they hatch," Jack spat.

Gibbs cautiously raised a hand to Jack's shoulder. His muscles were bunched, hardened with anger. Gibbs felt it too, a hard knot of protest and denial – _No! This couldn't be happening_ – in his throat. But there was much work to be done, too much grief to be handled for him to add his own into the mix.

"There be no doubt that the young lady's life had purpose, meaning, and impact, even after death. By faith, I could choose to believe that her life 'ad been sown like a seed, or I could resign myself to the fact that 'er life was just a part of a series of tragic and unforeseeable events. I'll be believin' in the first, so would the crew."

Jack blinked, and his mouth worked a little, but he seemed to have no notion how to reply.

"I will not pay homage to gods who dispense suffering without reason," Jack finally responded, he looked back out to sea. "Shower them with wine and flowers, at your own risk. I'll not be hangin' around when they crave blood, mate."

"Gods are merely reflections of our own selves, Jack. Name me a man, whether he be a King or a pirate, who isn't cruel, vengeful, malignant, lustful, lying, and thieving to boot."

"All true-" Jack began to form his brilliant counterargument until something struck him. In the midst of these thoughts, however, there began to arise in his mind the idea that he had been tricked and duped. "Gods lie … They lie quite easily don't they, Mister Gibbs? Now, what do we call a man who strikes a bargain with them?"

With a hearty laugh, Gibb's replied, "A fool, for certain."

At that moment, it all became clear - the mist before his eyes lifted to reveal the ugly truth beneath it all. William Turner had already known Bella's fate was sealed the very night he stepped foot upon the _Pearl_. Equipped with a silver tongue and what Jack perceived to have been 'mercy,' Will managed to negotiate and secure ten years of Jack's servitude.

A dark resentment arose within him at such treatment, Jack had been tricked into sacrificing his love, and nothing on earth could have tempted him voluntarily to do what he had been tricked into doing.

What a lesson to be learned! What a fine accord, indeed.

"Desperate men do desperate things," Jack thought aloud. No doubt he would have done the same, if he were in the Ferryman's boots.

_Turner really was a pirate. _

Jack smirked half-heartedly.

"Sir?"

Gibbs' voice had trailed away as Jack held the frockcoat's sleeve to his face once more, inhaling Bella's scent and filling his lungs with it. With his voice now vibrating with wrath, Jack whispered into the garment, "Mine for yours, then, dear William."

His hands shook, lips quivering as he mouthed, "Goodbye." It was his last moment with her.

Slowly, he opened his fingers, allowing the frockcoat to be taken by the wind and the darkness of night.

Stillness fell upon them for a space.

"Cap'n …" Gibbs intruded with concern.

Jack finally responded, "Aye, Mister Gibbs."

With fearful rapidity, every species of noise and interruption ceased on deck and a deadly silence prevailed. The sea of eagerly excited faces all turned towards their captain; it was a spectacle which might, for a moment, have shaken their nerves.

"We're off to see the King!"

_**Fin. **_


End file.
